Greater Than the Sum of Its Parts
by Mc Parrot
Summary: Damaged and grieving Steve has to fight his own limitations to rebuild his life. Assuming a new identity he literally sails off into the sunset. Years after leaving Hawaii he is at peace and happy with his life when he has a surprise meeting with someone from his past.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: At the end of season 3 Steve was visiting Wo Fat in a scary maximum security facility when some people were attempting to break in. It looked as if Steve was somehow going to bust Wo Fat out of prison. That's what I assumed happened, and that's what this story starts from, the assumption that they would then be on the run. And that things then went very very wrong. Of course Ep1 S4 bust that out of the water about 30 seconds in - dammit. But for those that are confused, that's what this story was built from.

Written for 2013 H50 Big Bang. Also posted on AO3

H50 H50 H50

Even in the rehab hospital, with his thought processes working like a sludge pump full of sand, Steve worked out that he didn't belong anymore. He wasn't the man he'd been and he never would be again. He didn't want to be reminded, however kindly, of who he'd been, and he didn't want to be a burden, even though everyone protested that he wasn't. He couldn't stay and they, all the people who loved him, wouldn't let him go, so he had to disappear. They didn't love him anyway, not really. They loved the man he used to be. It was all the more reason to leave.

And precisely because he was head injured and nothing like himself, it never occurred to anyone to do anything to stop him.

The first thing he did was tell them to stop coming to visit. He told them forcefully and to his surprise, they did stop. Later he thought, they probably only did it to give him space to adapt to his circumstances. They probably assumed he would come around and want to see them again. Whatever they thought, it didn't matter. He had to move on. His old life had to go.

The rehab facility was very upmarket and expensive. It had networked computers available in all rooms, hooked up to the TVs so that movies and workout videos could be streamed. Social media was available to keep the patients integrated with the world. Or not. It was also easily hackable. Steve used the computer in his room to create his new identity. No-one within the facility had ever contemplated that any one on the inside might wish to hack into the medical records and all that was required was an easily stolen password. Steve could only process one thought at a time, but at night, in the long hours when sleep wouldn't come, he followed his own trail and created a false background using, ironically, one of Wo Fat's cover names. They'd been on the run together. He knew a lot about how the man operated.

He needed to keep notes of what he was doing and what he was going to do, so that when he logged in each night he could come back to where he'd been the night before. The process was long and laborious and the notebook was tucked under his pillow when he slept and carried inside his shirt during the day. In the sort of facility this was, no-one questioned this behavior, if they noticed it at all.

Also ironic, and Steve was aware enough to get the irony, his injuries, at least superficially, were remarkably similar to that suffered by his nemesis. The explosion that had caved in his skull and taken his eye had also left the left side of his face and upper body burnt and scarred similarly, if not quite as severely, as the other man. Before his escape Wo Fat had set up several new identities and had included descriptions of the injuries and various scenarios for how he'd obtained them because of the very real possibility that he would need to seek medical assistance when he was running. It would be easier, he'd told Steve, if he didn't have to explain how he'd gotten hurt. Steve just had to change a few details and the identities fitted him too. He chose one, a name close to European and nothing that could ever be connected to him. John Chung was the man he was about to become.

He had access to Wo Fat's escape fund money too and it wasn't like the gangster was going to ever come after it. His death was the one compensation Steve had for the awful way things had turned out.

He worked on his project steadily for nearly three weeks, aware that it was something his past self could have done in under a day. The staff noted that he seemed more alert and orientated to his surroundings. He knew, because he checked his file every night. Once he was done, the facility's archive held, not just the records of Steven J. McGarrett, but also a file on John K. Chung, who had suffered remarkably similar injuries. The rest of what he needed to do wasn't going to be so easy, but he had plenty of time.

Every night he wrote in his book with his plan for the next day.

Show an interest in world news

Find out the date

Ask Dr. Isabelle something about herself

Find a place to go

During the day he wrote down the answers so he could refer to them again. He was doing everything he could do show that he was a functioning adult. He kept getting positive comments in his nursing notes. He went back online and after weeks of searching and comparing makes and models, J Chung bought an ocean-going yacht.

When he was as ready as he could be, Steve packed all his gear that he wanted to take into a laundry bag. They were all he could find to put his stuff in. Then he went to sign himself out. He was appalled to discover that he couldn't sign himself out, that he didn't, apparently, have any control over his own destiny any more.

His mind betrayed him. He hadn't foreseen this, every other hospital he'd ever been in had let him sign himself out, with reservations he'd brushed off after signing away liability, even if he wasn't well. This one wouldn't and he couldn't think what to do. "But I have to go," he told the doctor, his body yearning to keep walking off down the driveway and go to his boat. "I'm better. I'm ready." The little lady doctor went to take his bag of belongings and Steve's synapses fritzed. He snatched his bag back and lurched into threat mode, his body automatically attempting to take out the enemy.

It took three burly orderlies and a truck load of sedatives to get him back to his bed. The violent activity set off an incapacitating headache like he hadn't had since he'd first woken up in the hospital two weeks after the explosion.

His mother and Chin and Kono and even Grace and Rachel visited him, his nearest and dearest, as he lay there too sick and sore and sad to move. He didn't remember much and he didn't get out of bed again for nearly two weeks.

All in all, it was nearly three months before he thought he was ready again. Doctor Isabelle was back at work by then, and Steve could tell that, in spite of trying to act like there was nothing different when she worked with him, she was very jumpy and never saw him alone anymore. He hated that he'd hurt her.

He didn't know what the criteria were for being judged a fit and capable person, but obviously he wasn't faking it as well as he'd hoped. He wasn't going to make the mistake of trying to talk his way out again. It was also obvious that he needed to be fitter. He started putting more effort into his physical therapy, really working on stretching the damaged muscles in his right arm and side and fighting them into some semblance of normal action. He took to the gym and started taking longer and longer swims in the pool. They wouldn't let him swim in the cove below the facility without a orderly with him but that did happen a couple of times. It was blissful being in the sea and left him feeling nearly normal again, although the sea water made his scars burn and itch. The physical exercise helped him sleep. His nursing notes showed great progress.

He could fake normality in emails. The recipient had no way of knowing that the message they read in moments had taken Steve three agonising hours to compose. He arranged with the yacht's previous owners to berth it in a nearby marina and to care for it until he could come and collect it. He made out that he had business dealings all around the world but was planning an around the Pacific cruise to get away from it all, as soon as it could be arranged.

When he was ready he sent an email to say he'd be there in the next few days and to ask them to provision the boat for a month long trip. They were happy to organise the provisioning for him but very sorry they'd be unable to meet him as they were off for a vacation themselves (paid for by the sale of the boat, so they thanked him very much), leaving the day after tomorrow. He just had to call in at the marina office and collect the keys. They wished him well and every happiness and that he would enjoy the yacht as much as they had.

Steve was relieved. He wouldn't have to meet them and try and talk like a normal person.

The morning before he was planning to leave, he suddenly realized something he'd overlooked. He climbed out of the therapy pool having managed half an hour doing continuous laps. It wasn't anything like he used to be able to do, Before, but it wasn't bad. He skirted back through the changing room to get his towel, coming literally face to face with his problem, his face in the mirror.

He didn't go out of his way to avoid mirrors, exactly, although he didn't have any in his room, shaving in the shower by feel, but it was uncomfortable to be reminded of the way he looked. Even so, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten just how noticeable his face was now. Even if he wore his eye patch, which was noticeable enough, people were going to stare at him. The other patients and staff were accustomed to him, didn't notice and so he didn't either. He'd actually forgotten how grotesque he looked.

Forgetting his towel, he ran in terror back to his room and flung himself onto his bed. He had to pick up his boat without leaving a trail, and he was running out of time. It was waiting for him and people were going to start wondering if he didn't pick it up soon.

It took a long time for his heart to stop thumping. He pulled himself up and managed to shower and dress as he worked his way through the problem. And came up with a plan.

John Chung sent an email to the marina manager. He had been detained, but he was sending one of his staff to collect the boat and ferry it across to the property he was renting on Maui. The man was handicapped but quite capable of sailing the boat. If the manager should assist him with fueling and anything else that he needed, John would be very grateful.

Sitting back from the computer, Steve felt a wash of relief. He pulled his notebook out of his shirt and ran through his checklist. Everything other than what he needed to do when he actually left was ticked off. He was ready.

After dinner Steve went back to his room. This wasn't unusual and wasn't remarked upon. He wasn't on any medication in the evening so he wouldn't be checked until lights out. With his door shut, Steve carefully packed his few clothes, his notebook and his small collection of photos and mementoes from Before and placed them in one of the plastic laundry bags, closing the bag with a knot in the top. He put the bag in another bag and tied another knot and then added a third bag and tied that off too. His things were now as waterproof as he could make them. He had already spent several evenings cutting more bags into strips and carefully plaiting them together to make a cord. He tied one end of that to the bag and that was it, preparations done. Hiding it carefully in the wardrobe he climbed into bed to rest and to wait for the lights out check.

When the door opened and a torch beam swung across the floor to the bed he raised his head and asked for a sandwich. Marla, the late shift nurse's aide snorted and agreed to come back with something when she finished her round. Fifteen minutes later he had two sandwiches, one cheese and one tuna, both wrapped in cling film, from the stash the kitchen staff left for anyone who might get the munchies in the night. He had to open up his bags, annoyed that he'd forgotten about that, and placed them in the middle bag, not with his clothes, not tuna. He didn't want to smell fishy. As an afterthought, and wishing that he'd thought of it sooner, he took the water bottle from beside his bed and added that too. Closing the bags again he slipped to the door, listening intently. He could hear the staff hand over going on at the far end of the corridor at the nurses' station. Racing back to his bed he did the classic pillows under the blanket stunt, he'd nearly forgotten about that too. There wouldn't be another check now until about 1am and it was only ever a cursory flick of the torch towards the bed. With any luck no-one would miss him until about 6 am.

There were alarms on all the exterior doors and windows but Steve had long since discovered the code and written it in his book. He'd written it on his hand earlier, before he put his book in the bag. Letting himself out the front door, chosen because it was near the alarm box and away from the patient areas where the night staff would be, he slid into the shadows at the side of the building and headed around the back. There was a locked gate in the fence where the path went down to the cove but Steve hadn't been able to find a key. It didn't matter. It was very little effort to throw his bag over the fence and then hoist himself after it.

There was a good moon and it was easy to drop down to the cove. Once there he stripped off, and cursing his lack of forethought, undid the bags again, to put his clothes inside. He paid very careful attention to tying them tightly and securely. He tied his cord back to the bags and made a loop in the other end, sliding his right arm into it and pushing it up to sit around his upper arm. Then he waded into the water and started to swim.

The marina was approximately two miles across the bay. He hadn't been sure he could safely swim that far in one go and had intended to stick to the coast, coming ashore when he tired and walking along some of the beaches. Once he started, however, he felt fine. The water here was sheltered and still, there didn't appear to be much tidal influence, and he was sure he could do it. He headed straight out across the bay, pacing himself, making slow but even strokes. His body sang with joy at being in the water again and he got his rhythm going and zoned, becoming one with the water, stroking on and on into the moonlight, arm over arm, gently kicking, his laundry bag bobbing along behind him.

After a long, long time, the sudden slop of a wave broke over his head. Steve choked and sank, his concentration broken. He floundered and sank again, fighting to get his head above the surface. Fatigue hit him like a truck, muscles that hadn't worked so hard in a year strained to near collapse. He was pretty sure he'd swum all night. Righting himself he fought down panic, treading water and looking around. A small chop had come up, rising above his head and making it hard to orientate himself. It took him a moment to work out that he had actually nearly made it. The waves were caused by water movement, the outflow of the small river that nestled the marina, chopped up by an incoming tide. Colored lights from the buildings on the shore reflected in the water. Not only had he swum right across the bay, he had, by some miracle, arrived directly where he wanted to be with only a hundred or so yards left to swim.

The feeling of relief was enormous, but it was overlaid by something else, a feeling of pride. He'd achieved what he'd set out to do. For the first time since It happened he had put together a plan, followed it through and achieved something. He wasn't washed up and useless. He had done it.

The last hundred yards seemed to take more energy than the whole swim. He swallowed a ridiculous amount of water. He angled to the south and brought himself in on the small beach below the breakwater. It was shadowed and dark and no-one was likely to see him land. When his feet finally touched the bottom, a wave of exhaustion hit him, so deep he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to pull himself ashore. For a moment as he hauled himself out of the water the sense memory of coming ashore after swimming at the beach at home was so strong that the disconnect nearly short circuited his brain. His eye was showing him a steep pebbly beach with scrubby vegetation leading to the marina's parking lot while his mind knew he should be walking up a sandy shore and heading over the grass to his house.

He dragged himself up onto the rough pebbles and lay there, hands over his face, trying not to cry out loud. He was never going home again.

After a while he came to enough to haul himself up off the beach and into the shrubbery. He was shivering violently and every muscle ached. Fighting for control of body and mind, he ripped open his bags and gulped down his water. Fortunately his careful packaging had worked and his clothes and everything were dry. He hadn't thought to bring a towel but he'd dried off a lot anyway. He fought his way into sweat pants and top and lay back down, arms wrapped around his body as he started to warm up. After a bit he found his sandwiches and devoured them, the food going a long way to help his recovery. He could have done with at least six more.

He wore no watch, hadn't had since Before, still had heavy scar tissue on his wrist where the watch had held the heat. He couldn't bear the thought of putting a watch back on. He'd had no need for one until now. Turning onto his back he tried to gauge the time from the sky. He didn't think he could see any lightening of the sky to the east, but it was hard to tell with the street lights and other lights through the trees. He needed to rest or he would never be able to function in the morning, so he pulled himself back into most secluded area he could find, hidden by trees from the sea and from the parking lot by some low shrubs. It was by no means ideal, but it was simply beyond his exhausted body to get himself anywhere else at the moment. Pillowing his head on his pile of belongings he let himself sleep.

Steve jerked awake when a foot, none too gently, poked him in his side. "Hey." He made a grab for the foot but stopped with a hiss of pain as his body froze up and the man wrenched out of his grasp.

"Whoa." His attacker leapt back, hands up, placating. "You always wake up like that, boy?"

Steve blinked at him. He was elderly, grizzled, mixed race Hawaiian. The man peered at him. "You all right, son? What you doing here?"

Steve's mind frantically sought for an answer. "I…" He tried to form words. "I come for the boat," he croaked, his throat narrowing with fright.

"Oh, yeah," the man answered. He waved his arm in the direction of the marina. "Plenty of boats here. Which one you after?"

Steve cautiously sat up, forcing himself not to show how much it hurt. He needed his book. Couldn't think what to say. He turned and rifled through his things, breathing a sigh of relief when his notebook was there. The man seemed content to wait him out and Steve found he had words for this. "I've come for Mr. Chung's boat. Uncle," he added respectfully, proud of himself for thinking to add the honorific.

"You're the person fetching Mr. Chung's yacht?" the man said incredulously. "He said you were disabled but… Why are you sleeping here?"

There were no words in his book for that. He'd intended to be up and cleaned up before the manager arrived at work. But he'd been so tired. He tried not to let his mouth gape as he tried out words in his head. "I got here early," he finally said.

"Didn't Mr. Chung organise somewhere for you to stay?" The man sounded really mad.

Steve shrugged, unsure of the correct response, mouth opening and shutting as he couldn't find words, close to panic.

"Come on," the man held out his hand. "You had breakfast?"

Steve shook his head.

"You got money?"

Steve blinked. He knew the answer to that. "I've got Mr. Chung's card." He pulled it out of his pocket and showed him.

The old guy grinned. "Have you now? Well I think your Mr. Chung can afford to buy us breakfast. A good one, since he let you sleep out under the trees for a night. You want to use the showers in the marina and clean up a bit first? Your hair's full of sand, and your uh… " he waved a hand at Steve's face, "your… eye, you might want to wipe it up a bit."

Steve gasped and slapped his hand over where his eye used to be. He'd forgotten. Again.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay," the old guy said gently. "What's your name, son?"

And Steve couldn't think of anything clever on the spur of the moment. "Steve," he blurted.

The old man's name was Charlie, and like Steve had guessed, he was the manager of the marina. He'd parked his car in his usual spot when he'd arrived at work that morning and had the fright of his life when he thought he saw a body in the bushes in front of the car. Steve's shelter had been completely useless in the light of day.

Charlie loaned Steve a towel and soap, they had plenty of stuff to loan out to people using the berths, and left him to shower in the marina's facilities. Steve was stiff and sore but felt better after standing under the hot water. His empty eye socket still created tears, and what with all the salt water and then a night lying in the dirt, it was pretty crusty and ugly, as Charlie had noticed. He cleaned it out carefully with fresh water and when he dressed he added the eye patch that he was going to have to get used to wearing. He felt a little overwhelmed. He hadn't seen any people other than staff and patients for months. He rehearsed his cover story and when he finally thought he was ready, he smoothed down his hair, and hugging his bag of clothes, went to find Charlie. He had no idea if Charlie believed his story or not.

Charlie was in his office at the entrance to the marina. He smiled when he saw Steve.  
"Hey, kid, you look better. I was going to phone your Mr. Chung but I've only got an email. You want breakfast now?"

"Yes, please," Steve smiled back. It felt awkward. The scar on his face was stiff from so much time in the salt water but at least Charlie didn't seem to be calling the cops. "I'm not a kid."

"When you get to my age, everyone's a kid. Okay, then. Katy Ann's across the road. We'll have the full American with waffles on the side." He nodded towards his desk. "Leave your stuff under there. I'll lock the door. It's safe. How come you're carrying your gear in a garbage bag, anyway?" He hooked his arm around Steve's good arm, flipped a 'Back in Five Minutes' sign around, and dragged him out the door.

"Garbage bag?" he reminded Steve as they crossed the parking lot. "Lost your suitcase, did you?"

Steve hadn't thought about that at all. "Laundry bag," he gasped, then gratefully grabbed at Charlie's suggestion. 'My suitcase. Yes. I lost it."

"Uh huh."

Shit. Charlie wasn't believing him.

"Come on. Get yourself in here." He herded Steve in through the door of a diner and sat him down in a booth. "Two full breakfasts," he shouted at the woman behind the counter. "That what you want?"

Steve didn't think he could face grease and he had a bit of a panic as he tried to work out how to say what he did want. "Oatmeal," he ground out. "I like oatmeal." But this was supposed to be a celebration. "With syrup. Please," he added.

Charlie looked at him oddly. "Make that one full and an oatmeal with syrup, Katy Ann," he told the woman who was looking at him funny herself. "You can have whatever you like. Your Mr. Chung is paying for it, remember."

Steve grinned. Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten that. 'Mr. Chung' had more than enough money to spring for a couple of breakfasts. "I'll have pancakes too," he said loudly and was pleased when Charlie smiled at him. "With syrup."

"Good for you, kid. You worked for Mr. Chung long?"

"Uhh… yeah," he said cautiously. "A while."

"What do you do for him?"

Steve had learned this. "I look after the place. On Maui," he explained. "When he's not there. And I fix things."

Charlie sounded sceptical. "Do you?"

The woman brought their breakfasts and Steve fell on his. The warm, gloopy sweetness of the oatmeal was just what he needed to help him refuel. His muscles still ached but he was feeling stronger. Then she brought his coffee and it was heavenly. He hadn't had decent coffee since… Before.

"He treat you all right, does he?"

"Huh?"

Charlie leaned forward and stared intently at Steve. "Does he mistreat you?" he asked slowly and carefully, his chocolate brown eyes soft and concerned. "Your Mr. Chung."

"No!" Steve said, affronted. After all, he was Mr. Chung. Or he was going to be. "He's a good guy."

"So how come you were sleeping rough and carrying your clothes in a plastic sack like a runaway?"

Steve attacked his pancakes. "I came early," he muttered.

"And you never thought to use that card, to get yourself a bed?"

Steve hadn't. He blinked at Charlie.

"Okay, son. It's okay." Charlie sighed and chomped on a sausage. "And you really are capable of sailing a yacht to Maui?"

Steve grinned at him. "Yes, sir. I'm a good sailor, sir. I really am."

With his tummy full it would have been easy to give in to the lassitude that nearly overwhelmed him. But he couldn't give in, not yet. He had to get going before the care facility started looking for him.

He paid for the breakfast, carefully keying in the pin code for John Chung's credit card. He didn't need to write this one down, this was one number he remembered. It was his birthday. He turned to face Charlie. "Let's get the boat."

The boat was perfect. Steve couldn't believe how beautiful she was, sleek and shining in the early morning sun. She was a single-masted sloop, a little elderly but well kept. It wasn't large for a cruising yacht, only 23 feet, but it was fitted out to be handled by a solo pilot, a huge factor in Steve's choosing it. He just hadn't expected it to be so lovely.

"Oh," he said with delight as he hopped carefully down onto the deck. With only one eye he had no depth perception. "She's perfect." After a quick tour of the deck he patted the wheel and hurried below, bubbling with happiness as he took in the well set up galley, cabins and well maintained heavy-duty marine engines. He realized Charlie had followed him and tried to tone his response down but that was something else he had trouble with these days.

"She's not bad, is she?" Charlie said. "Mind you, I still think your Mr. Chung could have knocked them down a good $50 thou if he'd made a point of seeing the boat before he paid for it. She's in good shape but she's no spring chicken."

Things were well worn but neat and tidy. It hadn't even occurred to Steve that he might haggle over the price and he gaped at the man. "Don't get me wrong, boy, but seems to me your Mr. Chung's got more money than sense."

It took a long time for Charlie to leave and Steve didn't know what to do to make him go. He was getting more and more anxious. Eventually, with his words worn out, he just started the engine, which burst into life with a throaty growl, and started untying the lines. "I have to take the boat now," he told Charlie.

"I don't like…" Charlie was hanging over the side, holding onto the jetty.

"I'm a good sailor." Steve cast off the last line and jumped back on board. "Mr. Chung said to get the boat."

"Okay." Charlie leapt for the jetty. It was either that or leave with Steve. "Don't let him take advantage of you. Okay?"

Steve eased the throttle into reverse and backed out of the berth. "I get to sail the boat," he said, suddenly bursting with happiness. He waved and as he eased into the channel, turned the vessel's nose out towards the sea.

Steve eased his boat out between the marker buoys, observing the 5 knots inshore speed limit. The marina got smaller behind him as the coastline opened up, and he'd done it. He was nearly home free. He'd gone and done it. He let out a very uncharacteristic and unfamiliar whoop of sheer joy.

H50H50

Steve turned the boat left when he was out of the channel, just in case Charlie was watching, but then continued on around the coast. He would love to turn the engine off and set the sails but he was tired. He was so tired. He'd done more exercise and more interacting with people in the last twenty-four hours than he'd done in nearly a year. He physically hurt, every inch of him stiffening up from his big swim. He couldn't trust that he would be able to sail safely.

Thankfully, he'd anticipated the need to hole up and recover somewhere unnoticed. Many, many tourists hired boats just like this and sailed them around the islands, and many of them tied up overnight in the shelter of the State Seabird Sanctuary islands on the North Shore of Oahu. Steve thought the chance of him having messed up something or missed covering his tracks in some way was fairly high, but if they came after him, looking for one sailing sloop among many should be a needle in a haystack scenario. Especially since he could have gone in any direction, including straight out to sea. He would do that soon, but he'd give himself a chance to rest up and learn the boat first.

Just after mid-day Steve dropped anchor beside Mokulual Island, double checked that all his knots were tied and the boat was riding well. Then he went below, found the first aid kit and took two Tylenol with a large glass of water. He found sleeping bags in a locker, grabbed one and flung himself onto one of the bunks. He didn't wake again until 7 am the next morning.

He woke quickly, coming to sudden awareness of exactly where he was. He was also completely locked up, his muscles stiff and so sore. Everything hurt, his limbs, his back and his bad shoulder, all hurting like hell. He had no idea why that hadn't happened yesterday after his night in the trees, but probably he hadn't actually rested long enough. With a grunt of effort he managed to roll himself off the bunk and onto his hands and knees on the floor. From there he managed to pull himself to his feet and shuffle to the head.

My boat, he thought fondly as he pissed.

When he did finally crawl out of the hatch he was pleased to discover another four boats anchored in the bay.

He sat in the cockpit in the sunshine and worked through an arduous stretching routine, one movement moving into the next in a way his body just knew. He didn't have to remember how to do it; he'd done it so many times in the past. When he was finished he was still sore but he could move more easily. He went below for some water and then came back up, contemplated the sea for a moment and then dived in. His body loosened more as he swam, not far, just in towards the little beach on the island until he could stand in the chest deep water, and then he swam back. Climbing back onto the boat he was suddenly exhausted again and he rested in the sun, no hurry, no need to be anywhere or do anything. Best of all, no-one to talk to.

People on the other boats were waking up, breakfasting on deck, swimming, doing laundry, launching their tenders to row ashore. Some of them were close enough to hear their conversations. Steve zoned them out.

His scars started to feel tight and while his other muscles settled his shoulder was really killing him. He'd overdone it. And he slowly started to realize he was feeling hungry. He went below to see what provisions the previous owners had stocked the boat with.

And then found himself stuck in the middle of the cabin. He couldn't decide whether to take a shower first or look for food, overwhelmed by having the choice after so long having these things dictated for him. He was incapable of making the decision, nearly hyperventilating as he tried to work out what it would be best to do first. "Fuck." He stumbled slightly and banged his bad arm against the table, making the pain flare as he kept stumbling in that direction and then it was obviously a shower because he was standing in the tiny bathroom and after that things were easier.

The tanks were full with fresh water and as there was only himself to be using it, he could afford a slightly longer shower than he would usually take on a boat. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles and eased the ache in his shoulder.

He dressed in board shorts and tee shirt then sorted through the first aid kit looking for anti-inflammatories. There was the Tylenol, 'Sealegs', and an out of date bottle of anti-diarrhoea tablets and cold medicines, but that was the limit of medications. It was reasonably well supplied with dressings, a sling and bandages. He took more Tylenol.

The galley was well stocked with canned and dried food, herbs and spices, cooking oil, flour, sugar, teabags and instant coffee, while the small gas fridge, to his surprise, held an unopened carton of long-life milk, a loaf of bread, margarine, a dozen eggs and a bottle of champagne. Steve teared up at the kindness.

With a strange wobbly feeling in his stomach he made toast and scrambled eggs. Then he put on his eye patch and took his first meal of his new life and went and sat out on the deck.

Mid-afternoon Steve weighed anchor. He'd checked his charts and the weather forecast and he took his boat out to sea. He motored up to the northern tip of Oahu before setting the sails and letting her run before the northerly trade wind, angling to the west. He hadn't sailed a boat like this since he was a teenager, but he found he hadn't forgotten how. He'd never done it alone before, though, and it was very difficult to get things set just right. But when he did the boat sang. It was exhilarating.

It occurred to him that he didn't know her name. It was bad luck to change the name of a boat, so for now she would just have to be The Boat. He was fine with that.

Checking his position on the GPS he decided it was time for the real test and started tacking across the wind, heading northwest and coming into the wind shadow of the island of Kauai late afternoon. With some relief he lowered the sail and started the engine, motoring slowly along the coast until he found a sheltered spot to drop anchor.

He carefully stowed the sail and made sure the anchor was secure. Once again he was exhausted, but he felt more alive than he had all year. He was sunburnt, his body ached, his shoulder hurt, but it was so good. He was his own master. He could go where he liked, do what he liked. He could start to find who he was again. Before he could rest, though, he needed to write things down. He thought through how things ought to happen when he changed direction to tack into the wind and wrote it down. He'd noticed idiosyncrasies in the engine that might indicate the spark plugs needed attention. He wrote it down. He started a shopping list with anti-inflammatories and sunscreen and a hat that would stay on in the wind.

Steve ate a can of rice pudding for his dinner, dragged last night's sleeping bag into the double berth in the main cabin, gave the cabin wall a proprietary pat and went to sleep.

Steve didn't want to go ashore, he was too recognizable, but sunscreen and some meds for his shoulder were necessities. In the morning he prepared his list and untied the dinghy from the roof of the cabin. He rowed ashore at one of the small beach settlements, hoping they'd have enough shops to allow him to get what he wanted and that his face wouldn't be plastered all over the newspapers.

As it was, he got the odd looks he was starting to expect, the double take as people realized there was something wrong with him, followed by the rapid look away as they tried not to appear to stare. There was a small local store that could sell him bread and milk, the drugs, the sunscreen, some meat, chocolate, cookies and candy and other treats he was sure he deserved. It could even provide a hat. It was an ugly as sin, legionnaires' style cap in camo gray but it was actually perfect, covering not just the top of his head and his neck but most of the sides of his face, protecting the scar.

As long as he followed his shopping list and didn't try to engage too much in conversation he was fine. He paid with John Chung's card. Slightly spooked by the contact with people, he got back to the boat and got the heck out of Dodge. He was moored around the other side of the island by the end of the day.

Steve spent the next week resting, reading (there was a large collection of paperbacks on the shelves in the saloon) and learning his boat. Every day he sailed and by the end of the week he felt proficient and safe and pretty sure he could handle anything in any conditions. He'd covered all of the main Hawaiian islands and every night he changed moorings. He didn't go ashore again.

At the end of the week he was ready for the next stage. He spent two days doing a top to bottom inventory and inspection on every single thing on the boat. He started at the forward sail locker and ended up two days later at the rudder. He checked the contents of every storage area on board. Then he went over every rope, cord, cleat and piece of rigging. He practically dismantled the engine and put it back together. He checked the hand rails, radio and electronic equipment, compasses and GPS. He donned a mask and dived underneath, checking the hull, keel and rudder. He pored over charts and weather forecasts.

Finally satisfied that everything was literally ship shape, he sailed back to Maui. Heart in mouth, with his ugly hat pulled around his face, he motored into one of the big tourist marinas and very cautiously, because the lack of depth perception mattered when you were trying to line up a large moving object like a sloop with a stationary one, pulled in against the jetty. He fueled and watered the boat before tying her up and buying supplies at a supermarket in the town. People looked at him funny but no-one called his name. He went to one of the chain electronic stores and bought a laptop. He stopped at three different ATM cash machines. Mr. Chung's card had plenty of money on it, but ATMs had limits to how much cash could be drawn in one transaction.

After stowing his purchases he had one more thing to do. He pulled out his notebook and made sure he'd remembered the right names and places. He walked up to the gas station and went around the back to where a mechanic was working on a beat up Toyota. "I need to speak to Nick."

The mechanic pulled his head out from under the hood and wiped his hands on a rag. "That's me," he said, then he caught a glimpse of Steve. "Oh, shit."

"You've got something for me," Steve said.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure." The guy looked around, shifty, checking there was no-one there. "I didn't think you were coming. It's been months."

Steve didn't speak. He was learning it was easier that way. Made him seem tough, rather than stupid. He shrugged.

"Okay," Nick said. "I got it. Over here, in the office." The office looked like it could do with someone who knew how to file paper. Nick ignored it all and yanked open a drawer in an old wooden desk. The drawer looked like it had been used to store trash. Nick reached underneath the candy wrappers and pulled out a heavy envelope. He looked at Steve. "You got the money? My buddy ain't been paid for this yet."

Steve nodded and pulled out a fold of bills.

Nick handed over the envelope. Steve opened it and pulled out an American passport, drivers license and social security card. The name on the documents was John Chung and the photo used on them was the one taken on his admission to the care home. The documents looked good.

"Here," Nick said helpfully. "Black light," and he pulled one out of the drawer and waved it over the passport, showing the right seals and lines. "Got the right chip in it too. It's got an exit stamp," he showed him. "You left Hawaii last week. It's pretty damn good. You'll have no problems with that."

Steve grunted and handed over the money. He knew exactly where Nick's buddy had gotten the chips from but he wasn't going to mention that.

"Thanks." He tucked the envelope inside his tee shirt.

Steve never noticed the man watching him from the mezzanine.

In the morning when he weighed anchor, he set sail for Fiji. As the island finally disappeared over the horizon he cracked his bottle of champagne and toasted his new life. "I am John Chung," he said aloud. The champagne tasted sour. He poured it over the side.

H50H50H50

Steve sailed due west, following the well-used trade route across the Pacific. He intended to stay well north of the equator, using the trade winds, until he was nearly level with the Pacific Island group before dropping south. He had satellite, radio and GPS, up to date weather reports via the internet and his new laptop, and emergency locator beacons should things really go wrong. Many other sailors followed the same route at this time of year and yet he never saw another vessel. It was just him and his boat, alone on the ocean.

At first it was completely exhausting. This wasn't like sailing for a few hours and then mooring in a sheltered bay. There was no dropping anchor out here. He had to keep sailing and he had to keep thinking. He had to work to control the boat, rather than letting the sea and the wind control it. He had blisters and bruises from moving awkwardly or not getting out of the way in time. But over the course of a few days, moving around, making corrections, doing what needed to be done to ropes and sails; handling course corrections became automatic. When he became too tired he would set the sea anchor and let her sail herself, mainsail reefed right back, sailing on through the night.

Steve slept like the dead and it wasn't until the sixth night that he was actually able to stay awake long enough to see the stars. Then he lay on the deck and stared up at the huge dome of black and felt himself melt into the universe, just one of the many dots in the sky.

He couldn't stay on lookout all the time so he just had to trust to luck that he wouldn't run into any of the detritus that littered the oceans, such as containers that had fallen off ships and tended to float just below the surface. Or for that matter, trust that he wouldn't hit any whales. Both were things he'd heard of but could do nothing about. He was too tired to lose sleep over the possibility. If it did happen, well…

He ate well. The boat had a gas-powered fridge/freezer unit and he had plenty of food. He was running out of fresh fruit and green vegetables but had plenty of canned. He dragged two fishing lines behind the boat most of the time and generally caught something worth keeping every day, but he did have meat to eat if he got sick of fish.

Being on the boat gave him time to come to some sort of terms with what had happened to him. With no therapists, nurses, doctors or anyone expecting him to talk to them, he had the mental energy, finally, to grieve for his losses. He spent two days crying, sailing and crying, going about what he needed to do and crying until eventually it eased and he ached, but he also felt cleansed and new. Sailing the boat was all physical. It was reacting to what needed doing and doing it. If there'd been another person on board he would have had to try to explain what needed to be done and that would have been terribly difficult. Alone, he just saw what was needed and did it. Without the need to talk or communicate he felt normal and it was such a relief.

He checked the weather and adjusted his course to avoid storms, but sometimes he got caught in heavy seas on the edge of bad weather. Up to a certain level it was exhilarating. Too big and he furled the sails, secured everything, set the sea anchor and let her go.

Nearly three weeks into his trip a big tropical storm brewed up, several cells joining together to encompass a huge part of the Pacific. There was no way he could avoid it. As the wind got up he battened everything down and set the sea anchor. The boat turned her head into the sea and crashed and rolled with the swells. For the first time Steve felt afraid. This could get much worse before it got better and there was nothing he could do. He'd thought that if he got lost at sea, he wouldn't mind too much, but now he minded, he minded a lot. He thought of sending a position report over the marine radio as he heard another couple of boats doing but decided against it. He was too far from help. There was no point. No-one was following his journey. No-one knew he was here.

He stripped to his underwear (far easier to dry himself than wet weather gear), pulled on his harness, and hanging on for grim death made one last check of the deck, the rigging and the important link to the sea anchor before heading back below. The waves were the size of buildings and the boat seemed to climb the side of each one before plummeting into the trough.

Ducking back into the cabin, attempting to stop too much of the ocean from following him, he was hanging onto the hatch with his left hand, about to slam it shut above him when the boat lurched and he swung, most of his weight on that hand, twisting awkwardly backwards and wrenching and then crashing down into the edge of the galley bench with his bad shoulder. Steve screamed. Pain raced through him and he automatically curled into a ball. Bad move. He was bounced around the cabin, unable to get a hold on anything. Rain and sea water were streaming in through the hatch. He managed to wedge a leg around the table and haul himself up enough to attempt to close it. His left arm had no strength and he had to brace his body against the ladder and wrench the hatch shut one-handed.

Another rolling wave threw him back onto the floor, limbs akimbo. Something in his position caused a flash in his mind and he screamed again, this time in horror. His mind flashed to the dreadful image of Danny's body, flung ragdoll-broken and bloody on the warehouse floor.

Steve had been well aware that his team was tracking them, but he wasn't sure if Wo Fat knew. The team must have known that the meeting at the warehouse was a trap and Danny had followed them in, in spite of knowing what might happen. He'd been trying to save them and it was all Steve's fault. Steve deserved to be damaged as badly as this. It wasn't nearly bad enough.

It wasn't just the tossing of the boat that made it hard to get to his feet. He tried to towel himself off, severely handicapped by only having one working hand that needed to hang on to avoid being thrown around like a cork in a bottle. Now that he was sore, every lurch seemed to crash him into his bad side. It was only what he deserved.

Retrieving a sleeping bag, he wedged himself into one of the skinny bunks, bracing himself so he didn't crash into the walls. Steve decided against going any further above deck than the cockpit, simply checking the rudder linkage and the sea anchor twice a day before going back below. He ate power bars and managed water from a bottle, but he had no appetite. He hurt. He wasn't scared to die, but it was probably a good sign about his mental health, that he didn't want to yet.

He didn't think he was going to. He'd been through big storms at sea before, but that had been in big vessels, warships. This was entirely different. It took three days for the storm to blow itself out and Steve and his boat were completely at the mercy of the elements, but the boat was strong and she was built for this. All Steve had to do was trust her to get him through. She did. On the third day the weather eased and on the fourth night Steve was able to properly sleep, exhausted from the effort of bracing himself against the walls of the bunk so as not to crash into them. He woke to a clear sky and an arm that was an alarming shade of purple. The rest of him was showing an astonishing array of bruises too. He was sore and stiff and ravenously hungry.

The sea was still heavy but Steve decided it was safe enough to fire up the stove and make himself something hot to eat. A large potful of oatmeal loaded with half a jar of honey and washed down with three mugs of tea made Steve feel much better.

The forward hatch had a loose hinge, some ropes and bumper pads he'd foolishly left outside had washed away, but structurally the boat had come through just fine. The fridge door might have had a lock to hold it shut, but everything inside had been thrown around. Most of the contents of the galley and all the books and CDs had leapt off their shelves. He left her on the sea anchor and spent the day tidying and repairing and allowing himself to rest. The sea was still rough enough to make the thought of trying to sail unpleasant. He swallowed Tylenol and iced his shoulder, enjoying lying comfortably on his bed, the wider double bunk in the main cabin. He slept most of the afternoon, getting up to cook up some potatoes and add a can of stew for his dinner.

The storm had carried him south and he was now close to the latitude he needed to be to work his way west. The weather report showed no more storms on their route, which was just as well. The boat might be able to handle it, but he didn't think his body could.

Three days later, things were going really well and Steve was starting to anticipate arriving soon. Out of the blue, with no trigger that he could notice, a storm of another sort struck. He got one of his killer headaches. It came on fast, pain in his temple and behind his missing eye, going from vague discomfort to pick-axe-attack agony in the space of barely thirty minutes. He just managed to drop the sail and set the sea anchor. He crawled onto the closest bunk and curled up, whimpering with pain.

He didn't move again for another three days, which was eerily similar to the time he'd spent braced on the same bunk during the actual storm.

It could have been worse, he told himself, when he finally managed to drag himself out of the soiled, reeking bunk. It could have gone on for weeks, like the last one when he'd first tried to leave the hospital. It was terrifying that it had come out of the blue, giving him hardly any time to prepare. What if this happened when he wasn't in the middle of the ocean with nothing to run into? Shivering and weak, he stood in the shower until the small cylinder went cold, feeling a little better when he finally dressed. It was mid-afternoon and he needed to eat but he couldn't stand the stench in the cabin. He clambered out to lie in the sun on the cabin roof. His own personal storm scared him much more than the weather one.

There were hundreds of islands in Fiji. Many of them were coral atolls with barrier reefs and lagoons, making it difficult to moor close in. When Steve finally navigated into a safe mooring, nearly two weeks after his headache, he would have been pleased to stay there for a very long time. He had had quite enough of deep sea sailing.

Rowing awkwardly ashore in his little tender he staggered a good mile along the deserted, Robinson Crusoe beach, waiting for his land legs to kick back in. Anchoring the boat also meant he could swim again, something impossible to do without a tether to the boat while at sea. He'd hoped swimming would ease the stiffness in his shoulder, but if anything it made things worse. It wasn't just weak, it was actually sore. So he gave up swimming, threw on a mask and snorkel and just floated, enjoying the color and life of the reef below him.

He only stayed one night. He needed fresh water and fresh food. The way his shoulder was, he needed, at the very least, a physical therapist, and depending on what the therapist said, possibly xrays and doctors. Which meant, he had to make landfall at a place with decent infrastructure and facilities, something which also came with customs and officialdom. For the first time since he'd stowed it on leaving Hawaii, he pulled out the envelope with his new identity papers. Nick in Maui had said that the passport was 'a good one' but Steve wouldn't know how 'good' until he tried it. The worst that would happen if it wasn't accepted would be that he would have to reveal who he really was and wait for the American government to rescue him. Or, he thought morbidly, he could spend the rest of his life in a Fijian cell.

Steve tipped the contents of the envelope onto the saloon table. He investigated the passport. It certainly looked real, with the feel and weight of the real thing. And it had an exit stamp from Hawaii for the week before he actually left. He needed to get an entry stamp for Fiji before too long or it was going to look suspicious.

He was putting the passport back in the envelope with the cards when he noticed a folded piece of paper stuck in the glue joint at the bottom of the envelope. Pulling it out he unfolded the note paper and rocked back in shock.

'Steve,' the handwritten note started. Handwriting Steve hadn't seen in over a year, but recognised instantly.

Steve,

John Chung is as real as I can make him.

This is a valid US passport.

Don't pay this bozo.

He's already been paid, although he didn't do any actual work.

Travel safe and with love

CHK

"Chin," Steve whispered. He put his head down on the table and wept.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," he practiced.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," Steve told the bored looking native Fijian immigration agent in the capital, Suva. Steve's heart was pounding so hard he could nearly hear it. Years' worth of training kicked in and he doubted anyone else could tell. The man scanned and stamped the passport with barely a glance. "You come from Hawaii?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You been anywhere else on the way?"

"No."

He didn't ask about the length of time, he just stared, openly curious at Steve's eye patch. "You get caught in that big storm?"

He nodded, mouth dry.

"You lucky," the man said. "Know of three boats lost in that storm between here and Hawaii." He handed the passport back. "Ni Sa Bula. Enjoy your stay."

Steve guessed that Chin would be monitoring the passport. At least he'd know that Steve had made it okay.

He stayed two nights, catching a bus into the city and finding a market to stock up with food. He bought lots of fruit. He was constipated.

The price of the moorings in Suva annoyed him and the water in the river was brown and polluted. The city was teeming with people. He didn't like it.

He up-anchored. Steve headed north, intending to just stop when he hit somewhere nice at one of the many other islands of various sizes. He motored out of the shipping lane and started to raise the sail, hauling on the halyard, when something wrenched in his shoulder. He gasped as pain shot down his arm and across his shoulders. He couldn't use his arm, couldn't sail one-armed. He had to get it seen to.

But not in Suva. With a lot of struggle he got the sail up and worked his way around the main island, ending up coming in to a mooring in the marina at Lautoka. Lautoka was geared to tourists heading to and from the off shore island resorts. The marina was full of expensive boats, with mooring prices to match. Steve just had to suck it up. The town had a lot of hotels, a supermarket of sorts, several bars and a medical center.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," he told the physical therapist, a tiny Indian girl who didn't look to be older than twelve. Wearing a bright yellow sari, she looked like an exotic doll. Steve was, however, hugely reassured by her signed degree on the wall, from the University of Otago in New Zealand.

She smiled at him, showing even, white teeth. "Hello, John. I am Dona. What seems to be the problem?" She manipulated, pulled, massaged, wrenched and flung his arm around like someone three times her size, and it hurt. He wasn't as stoic as he used to be, a little embarrassed by the moans she wrung out of him. He couldn't believe that someone so small could do that to him, but she did. An hour later he was sore, but had a much greater range of motion than when he'd arrived. She set him some exercises to do and told him not to swim. Then she told him to come back in a week.

He didn't know what he was going to do for a week, but he'd had enough injuries in the past to know it was going to take more than one week to fix this.

He was pondering whether to motor out to an island not too far away or whether he should be trying to find work of some sort. He was striding down the jetty to collect his tender, which luckily had a small outboard and he didn't have to row it, when he overheard an argument on one of the large motor cruisers. A woman with a very shrill voice was telling a man, probably her husband, that he couldn't be trusted with a pair of scissors, let alone a screwdriver. He was a stupid old coot who needed to be locked away for his own good. And what was she supposed to do now, and she should just leave him there. She was shrieking so loud he was surprised no one else was looking.

By then Steve had spotted him. The 'stupid old coot' was a large, florid man, hanging upside down, tangled in the wiring of his expensive satellite unit, which was also hanging from its radio mast, right at the top of the flying bridge of a huge launch. Steve didn't think, he just reacted, leaping onto the boat and shinning up the outside of the cabin to stand beside the woman.

"Wire cutters," Steve said, nodding at the tool box on the deck. He reached up, bracing the upside down man's shoulder against his own right shoulder. This allowed just enough slack that the loop of wire that had been in danger of amputating the man's foot loosened and the wife could manage, at the end of her reach, to get the cutters in and release it. The man dropped and Steve managed to flip him so that he rolled onto his back, rather than his head, and they both collapsed, groaning, onto the floor of the bridge.

Steve had tried to protect his shoulder, but it still throbbed. Grunting, he pushed himself into a sitting position, hand clasped to his shoulder, to find the couple staring at him. The man was clutching his ankle while the wife had sat down heavily beside him.

"Thank you," the man said, a little shakily. He flexed his foot and winced. There was some blood, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Steve had been expecting. "What happened to your eye?" And Steve realized the stupid patch had come off.

He grabbed for the patch and shoved it on again. "Hello. My name is John Chung." He pointed at the guy's ankle. "Are you all right?"

The couple were Australian, John and Jayne Callihan ("Another John. Good name."), who had made their money in vitamins. Their boat was moored here in Fiji permanently and they came over frequently for holidays. Steve learned all about the vitamin business over a beer on their spacious aft deck. No one seemed to mind that he didn't talk much, and if he gave the impression that he'd been injured in Afghanistan, they didn't question it at all. "I don't suppose you know how to fix satellite units?" Jayne asked. "I'd like to know I'm not sailing into a reef anytime we leave port."

Steve thought about it. It would just be wiring and placement. It wouldn't even be too physical and shouldn't hurt his arm. "I can do that."

"Thanks, mate." John clapped him on the back. "You're hired."

So John Chung became a handy-man fixer of boats. It paid enough to cover his mooring and groceries, which was all he needed. He got work through word of mouth and there were always new boats coming in. In between times he fixed up his own boat, repairing the damage from the storm. He couldn't find anyone in Lautoka to replace the mattress he'd thrown into the sea, so that was going to have to wait, but he got everything else sorted and polished.

He overheard some kids on one boat calling him Pirate John. He kind of liked that.

Every week he saw Dona, the PT. She wore a different, primary colored sari every time he visited. He did his exercises religiously and was seeing a definite improvement in his shoulder. By week four he had close to full range of motion again, although his arm was still much weaker on that side. "You decide," she told him, "if you need to see me again or not?"

Reluctantly he shook his head. He liked seeing her. As she worked, she talked. She'd seen him looking at her diploma and so she told him about studying in Dunedin, in New Zealand, where it was so cold that snow fell to sea level in the winter. She told him about growing up Indian in Fiji, where Indians were second class citizens while actually owning more businesses than any other nationality. She talked about her mother who wanted to marry her off in an arranged marriage. She never really stopped talking. It was inconsequential and she didn't expect him to talk back, in fact there wouldn't have been space for anyone to get a word in. She was really nothing like someone he'd once known who used to talk a lot. He felt included in her world, her very different world. He liked it.

He rotated his shoulder. "It's nearly better now."

She leant forward and kissed him on the forehead. "You are lonely. You need to find someone."

"I'm fine," Steve said, and he was.

He'd started running again and was up to five miles every day. His bowels had sorted themselves out, thank goodness. He felt more like himself than he had since the explosion. As long as he didn't have to talk to anyone.

The marina held a transient population of boat owners and renters, usually Australians or New Zealanders. They were all on vacation, although they called it a holiday, having a good time, relaxing. Occasionally someone arrived who had sailed here, as Steve had, from Hawaii, the west coast of America, or some of the other Pacific Islands. Pirate John offered assistance, repairs and local knowledge.

He decided to explore Fiji himself. With the number of islands it was possible to enjoy a day's sailing with a different, beautiful island mooring every night. One night, in a bay alongside a boat full of drunken teenagers using someone's father's yacht, he joined them for drinks and ended up having enthusiastic sex with a girl who was probably underage. She was a cuddler and kept close, asking him to stay the night with her. He was happy to oblige until, when she went out to the head in the night, he overheard her laughing with her friend, about how much they owed her for going through with the dare.

It was like a kick in the gut. Hurt and humiliated, he didn't approach other people for weeks, sailing willy-nilly between the islands, fishing, snorkeling, and now that his shoulder was nearly back to normal, carefully swimming again.

After a month he worked his way back to the marina at Lautoka. The marina manager welcomed him back with a list of people who needed small jobs done. He'd become enough of a local that vendors at the local market knew him, and one day an elderly native woman waved him over enthusiastically and pressed a jar of cream into his hands. When he looked puzzled she launched into an incomprehensible explanation in Fijian. It sounded so close to Hawaiian that his confused brain hurt trying to translate what she was saying. Taking pity on him she took his hand, pushed his teeshirt sleeve up and proceeded to rub the cream into the burn scars on his arm, smiling and nodding all the time. He hated the look of the scars and mourned the loss of his tattoos but her touch felt good and the cream smelled nice, sort of sweet and nearly like honey, so he thanked her and bought a pot.

At bed time he rubbed more cream into his arm and then did the same to his face. It didn't sting like other creams he'd tried, so he worked it carefully into the lumps and bumps. For the first time in ages his skin didn't feel too tight. After two days he could smile and move his mouth without the scars pulling. He hadn't even realized that they usually did.

He wanted to give the Fijian woman something to say thank you. The natives, particularly around Lautoka, lived in poverty, and he had no idea what he could give her that wouldn't insult her. He was so grateful for the cream that he really wanted to give her something. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable his face had felt until it didn't anymore.

It was Sunday when he had a brainwave. On Sunday the islands came to a standstill as the devout Native population dressed in their best clothes and went to church. The women's dresses were beautifully white and frilly, freshly pressed, and on their heads they wore elaborate straw hats dressed with flowers. On Monday Steve caught the bus all the way back to Suva, a journey of several hours. He went into one of the weird department stores and bought the biggest, frilliest hat he could find and had it carefully wrapped.

On Tuesday he went racing into the market. The lady was there, cross-legged, her wares spread out around her on a tapa mat on the ground. Steve skidded to a halt in front of her and then, overcome with shyness, found he couldn't speak. He held out the package to the startled woman. She recognised him and beamed, putting the parcel down and grabbing hold of his ankle, before he could run away. She pulled him down to her level and investigated the scars. She ran her hand gently over his arm and then just her fingertips across his face, tracing around the eye patch. Steve found himself blinking back tears. The next thing he knew, she was pulling him in, wrapping him in her arms, holding him against her warm, ample bosom.

On Sunday Steve stood outside the church, his own face split into a wide smile as the congregation came out and his friend was wearing the hat. He was about to melt back into the bushes beside the road when she looked up and spotted him. She dropped the hand of the small girl beside her and made for Steve. He was frozen to the spot as she advanced on him like a galleon in full sail. The next thing, she grasped his arm, tucked his hand into the crook of her elbow and towed him home with her for Sunday dinner.

The Pepe family treated Steve in much the same way as they treated the myriad of toddlers that swarmed through the small home. They were grandchildren, Steve thought, but he couldn't be sure. There were half a dozen burly men and two buxom women, obviously all related but who was actually married or otherwise related to whom, Steve again couldn't be sure. It didn't matter. Mrs. Pepe ruled the roost with a quiet velvet voice. Her word was law. There was a huge haunch of roast pork, more than enough to feed a dozen extra waifs and strays. Steve suspected it was actually food for the entire week.

Most of the family spoke English, but didn't seem concerned when Steve was disinclined to talk much.

The following Sunday Steve was startled when someone leapt onto the deck of his boat, just as he was about to fix himself a sandwich for lunch. It was the little girl he'd first seen at the church last week, one of the Pepe grandchildren. She offered him a sunny smile. "Nana says, plenty for everyone. She says you're too skinny." She held out her hand. "Come on."

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He'd wanted to buy Mrs. Pepe a present. Now she was feeding him, but it gave him a warm feeling inside. Sunday dinners grew into quite a considerable amount of time at the Pepe's. He went fishing with the son-in-law. He helped Mr. Pepe reroof the little house. He carried Mrs. Pepe's goods to the market and helped her set up her stall twice a week. He started bringing groceries and beer and was bossed around like one of the boys. If he was there, he was fed. If he didn't turn up for a couple of days in a row, one of the grandchildren would be sent to fetch him for a meal. Mrs. Pepe kept pinching his arm, judging whether he was gaining weight to her satisfaction. She was a mother like he'd never had. She enveloped him with hugs.

Steve went fishing with Josefa, one of the sons; and Joni, who might have been adopted, taught him how to mend fishing nets. Sometimes he helped prepare the herbs that Mrs. Pepe added to a manuka honey cream she imported to make her magic herbal honey cream. If Steve had no work at the marina he would often come to sit on the Pepes' porch and mend nets or do whatever was needed. And if sometimes he needed to sleep, as he still did occasionally – right now – no-one blinked when he curled up with a pillow on the tapa cloth mat on the floor. Mrs. Pepe would have a cool drink and a hug ready for him when he woke up.

Steve was healing mentally as well as physically. It helped that he wasn't Steve McGarrett anymore. The Pepes thought he was Pirate John and they liked him just fine.

His brain had trouble with the similarities between Fijian and Hawaiian. Hearing the language gave him a headache. It was the one drawback to the amount of time he spent at the Pepe house. It seemed churlish when he'd been welcomed so warmly, but he was starting to realize that he didn't like Fiji. The political situation was awkward and people were generally unhappy about it. The dissonance with the language added to the odd feeling the place gave him. Fiji was like Hawaii, but only on the surface. There was a huge disparity between the standard of living between the local people who lived in shanties and the tourists who flocked to the resorts and the owners of the super yachts in the many marinas. It felt wrong and Steve felt unhappy being a part of that. He had enough money to buy the Pepes groceries for the rest of their lives and then some. Not that they'd let him.

And he was getting restless. He was physically fit again and his brain seemed to be working alright, as best as he could tell. He needed another challenge. It was a bit of a surprise to realize he'd been in Fiji nearly ten months. He started thinking about sailing somewhere else and the other pacific islands didn't appeal, for the same reason Fiji didn't any more. Most of the people in the marina came from Australia or New Zealand and somehow Dona the PT's chatter all those months ago came back to him. She'd grown up in the islands and she'd liked New Zealand. For no other reason, Steve decided to go there.

H50H50H50

Auckland's Waitamata harbor was guarded by a round, dormant shield volcano. Steve felt right at home. John Chung cleared customs and had to give a thorough accounting of his intentions while visiting, to which he answered, "Sailing." He had to show his bank account details and prove he had enough money to survive on and was eventually given a two year visitor's visa. He didn't think any more about it, other than noting that everyone in the customs house, visitors and staff, was of European extraction.

He hoped Chin was still watching John Chung's passport and that he'd be aware, after seeing him leave Fiji, that he had safely arrived somewhere else.

Steve had organised moorings online, because it was still easier than face to face, and discovered that he was tying up in a small bay, just around the corner from the expensive Westhaven Marina where all the fancy boats were. His mooring was nearly literally underneath the Auckland Harbor bridge. Auckland was much closer in size, population make up and demographics to Honolulu than anything in Fiji was, and as it was summer when he arrived, Steve felt comfortable and at home.

He spent his first week recovering from the long trip. He'd had no storms of any kind this crossing, although the sea had been rough when he left. Even so, he was exhausted, sick of being cooped up, and once again constipated. He pulled on his running shoes and set out to remedy the situation.

After his week resting he rowed himself around to the marina and started asking people if they needed any work done. As in Fiji, he didn't need to work, but he felt better busy, he had a purpose and something to do. He also spent time getting on buses and traveling all over the sprawling city. Just after Xmas, which he'd tried to ignore, when the city was sweltering in a January heat wave, he caught a bus across the isthmus and ended up on the West Coast. Hills clad in subtropical rainforest dived into a wild ocean. It was similar in a way to Hawaii. There were surf clubs. Steve stood on the wild Piha beach watching the surfers and felt a wave of homesick longing. It had never happened to him, not really, not since he was first discharged from the hospital but not allowed to go home.

He got on the next bus back to downtown and hurried back to his boat. He wanted his old life back and he couldn't. It wouldn't. He couldn't. That life was over.

Two days later he caught the bus back to Piha and hired a board from a small shop by the surf club. He couldn't go back, but he could still surf.

And he did. As long as he didn't actually think about what he was doing and what he needed to do, if he relied on muscle memory he could catch nearly every wave. If he stopped to try and calculate the best approach, when to make a run or how he should stand, he was lost and wiped out. He had the best and most exhausting day.

He was working on a large ocean-going yacht owned by couple from Iowa. "Couldn't get further from the sea if you tried," the man had boomed. "So of course I took up sailing. Needed a crew, though," he had admitted. "We'd have sailed off the edge of the world if it was left to me." Steve was busy sanding back window surrounds in preparation to varnishing them when someone hailed him from the jetty.

Steve had to turn right around to see the caller as he was on his blind side. The man was dressed in a suit, but that wasn't completely unusual here where many of the boats were owned by high flying business men. "You Pirate John?" the man asked. "The one that does odd jobs?"

"Yep." Steve nodded, working out in his head how much longer he'd be working here and wondering if the cruiser that had said they might want their galley remodeled was likely to follow through. "I can't work for you this week."

The man folded his arms. "You American?"

"Yep." The man didn't look like he knew bow from stern. "What do you need doing?"

He pulled out an ID badge. "I need to see your work visa," he said.

Steve's brain froze. In the face of officialdom all his hard fought normality left him completely. Nausea slammed through him. His tongue disconnected from his thoughts. The man looked at him like something he'd scraped off his shoe.

Steve thought he might throw up. He couldn't make words.

"Have you got a work visa?"

Numbly Steve shook his head.

"I need you to cease and desist." He glared at Steve who was still frozen with a block of sandpaper in his hand. "Right now."

Steve dropped the block which bounced on the deck and over the edge to splash into the water.

The man turned. "If I hear of you working here again you'll be prosecuted."

Steve sat staring after him, hurt and furious at himself for his inability to deal with the situation. Eventually he collected his tools and rowed home. The Iowa sailor would think he was unreliable as well as an idiot, but it was too hard to try and explain.

He didn't know what to do. He needed to work to feel normal, to feel that he could take care of himself even though he didn't need to. He was gutted, sick and exhausted and distressed.

He needed help.

Luckily there were some people who might help him. He had an address on a piece of paper given him by Mr. Pepe. Some relatives of the family lived in Auckland and Mr. and Mrs. Pepe had urged him to get in touch with them if he needed anything. He didn't know if they could help. He didn't know if they would even be interested in seeing him, but he had nothing else to do now. He might as well go and see them.

Otara was a simple bus trip away and yet it was like moving back into a Pacific Island world. The city of Auckland actually had the greatest concentration of Pacific Islanders in the world, and most of them lived in and around the suburb of Otara. The Pepe relations were a little surprised at Steve's arrival, but as warmly welcoming as their kin. And they knew all about immigration hassles. Steve stayed with a cousin for a week, sleeping on a too soft single bed in a room decorated with tapa cloth and hibiscus print sarongs. There was a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. It was the first time he'd seen more than just his face in a mirror in over a year. The long-haired, heavily tanned, wiry reflection bore very little resemblance to the person he thought he should see standing there. The eye patch was only a very small part of the difference.

The relations fed him familiar Fijian food like taro and pork with watercress and they talked. They talked non-stop in the Fijian tinged pidgin that once again made his brain ache. At the end of the week it had been decided that Steve should go to work on the fishing boats. It was hard work but good wages and the fishing company helped their employees get visas. Several of the cousins had done this. Decision made, a cousin drove him into the offices of the fishing company and John Chung signed on.

That night he went back to his boat, pleased after a week surrounded with people to be alone. He went back to the offices the next day with his passport. He was starting to wonder why he stayed John Chung, but he didn't have his own passport with him and it would be too hard to explain why the passport he'd entered the country under wasn't him. The fishing company clerk didn't know any different. He was quizzed on his background and his ability to work at sea for up to six weeks at a time. The thought held no qualms. He told the recruiting officer that'd he'd been in service in the Navy and that seemed to clinch the deal. He signed on as a deck hand and the recruiting officer handed him over to a nice lady who helped him fill in an application for a work visa. It would take a couple of weeks to come through, if it were approved. The lady couldn't see why it wouldn't be. She said to come back when he had it.

The next day he opened a local bank account and a post office box, then he took the bus back over to Piha to go surfing. After a couple of days surfing he took his boat out and explored the harbor, from the civilized latte community on Waiheke Island to the other worldly wildlife reserve of Little Barrier Island. After ten days he came back to the mooring, already anticipating his new life.

It took another week of mucking around to get the right stamps in his passport. When he finally made it to the fishing company there was a whole new round of clerks and officials who simply grunted and handed him papers to say the company took all care but no liability for injuries sustained in the course of dangerous work in open waters, sign here. John Chung signed.

He'd naively thought the boats sailed from Auckland, but they didn't. They were huge factory ships that plied the southern ocean, right down to the Antarctic, and they operated out of Christchurch in the South Island. Steve was handed a plane ticket for two days' time and that was that, he was a fisherman.

H50H50H50

A fishing factory ship is a small enclosed society that relies on all members of its crew to keep things ticking over. The deck crew baits the huge long lines and raise and lower them from the deep. Fish caught is dropped straight into the bowels of the ship where the processing line gut, fillet and pack the fish before they've barely stopped flapping. The galley produces food at regular intervals to feed everyone and the bridge crew takes the boat where it needs to go. And all of it happens in the heaving southern latitudes among some of the strongest winds and biggest seas in the world. It's a hard life and anyone who gets seasick isn't going to make it.

Steve loved it.

He loved working on the deck in all weathers. He wore heavy weather gear and heaved lines and fish around, enjoying the strength in his body. The cold was bracing and exhilarating because at the end of the shift there was a good hot shower to warm up and good food to fill his belly. You had to be a certain sort of person to work like this and Steve fit right in. His bunk was the top bunk in a tiny room barely big enough to turn around in. His bunk mate was a stringy teenager who worked on the engines and Steve never saw him without ear buds in his ears. If he talked it was all about the doings of celebrities and plot twists of soap operas that Steve had never heard of. They were hardly ever in the cabin at the same time and when they were it was easy to tune him out.

Albatross often followed the boat and Steve never got tired of watching the majestic birds effortlessly surfing the air currents above the waves. The ship practiced albatross avoidance techniques, weighting the fishing lines with their hundreds of hooks so that they would sink quickly behind the boat, well beyond the depth to tempt the birds from trying to eat the bait. Even so, one day, pulling in the enormous long line heaving with hoki, Steve saw an albatross, its beak caught on a hook, its magnificent body limp and dead, drowned. He nearly wept.

It only took a few days for Steve to learn the ropes of what was required of him. He could tell that his supervisor, Mike, wasn't sure of him in the beginning. It was the eye thing. But he quickly proved himself to be fast and strong. He was careful. It was a dangerous environment with winches, hooks and machinery, and that was without the ocean trying to throw them around, but Steve was well used to moving with a ship and adapted well. He had enough to do to challenge him and he wasn't bored. Things changed minute by minute. No one expected more from him than he could give. No one gave a damn that he didn't talk. Hell, he wasn't even the oddest person on the boat. One-legged Hemi, the bosun, got that title. Especially since rumor had it that Hemi, who was built like a Sherman tank, had actually once upon a time been Henrietta.

Steve was happy and his six week tour was over before he knew it. It was with some regret that he packed his duffle and lined up with the rest of the crew to leave the ship and be taxied to the airport to fly home to Auckland. He was booked on with most of the same crew for the next rotation in six weeks' time.

Coming back to his boat was like coming home. He'd paid a man who lived in the bay to keep an eye on it and he'd told him when he was coming back, so he'd put milk in the fridge and fresh water in the tanks. Steve threw his duffel onto his bed and felt the smile spreading across his face. It felt odd to sleep on a bed that was wider than his shoulders, and the barely discernible motion of this vessel, moored in the inner harbor felt nothing like the heaving ocean-going ship he'd become used to. The next day he checked his mailbox and discovered a large package from Fiji. Mrs. Pepe had sent him another supply of her magic ointment. He felt a huge surge of love and missed her dearly.

He stocked up the boat and sailed her out of the harbor, exploring the northeast coast of New Zealand. It was the end of summer but the weather felt incredibly warm after his time in the south. He spent a week enjoying sailing, enjoying making his own routines, before mooring up at Great Barrier Island, back near Auckland. It was a pretty place and enough like some of the more remote islands of Hawaii to make him a little homesick. He was restless and didn't know why. He was doing exactly what he wanted but it didn't seem like enough. He didn't know what he wanted, but sadly, somehow, it wasn't this.

It occurred to him, just after he gave up and headed back for his mooring under the harbor bridge, that he didn't want to live on a boat anymore. Because of working at sea and living at sea, so yeah, that had to be the problem. Didn't it?

He spent the rest of his leave time taking the bus to Piha and going surfing.

The company sent out a mini-van to collect the employees to take them to the airport to fly south for their next shift. There were some new faces and a few familiar ones who greeted him with enthusiasm. Steve felt like he belonged.

Because he was no longer the newbie, Steve was upgraded to a slightly bigger cabin. There still wasn't room to swing a cat, but the two bunks were side by side instead of on top of each other, so at least there appeared to be more space. It also had a porthole, high on the wall above the dresser between the beds. He had a new roommate too, Henry, an enormous Samoan who filled all the space in the room.

Henry carefully sticky-taped a photo of his wife and three daughters on the wall above his bunk, grunted hello and headed for the mess. Steve slung his duffel on his bunk and followed. Around 60% of the crew were on the last trip and it felt good, the way they all slotted together without effort. People knew him. He was asked about his time off although no-one expected long answers. People told him about their leave and only the newbies stared at his eye patch. It was good to have meals prepared for him again too.

Three days steaming took them to the edge of their fishing grounds on the Chatham Rise and work began in earnest. It was really cold this time. Winter was coming on and down in the southern latitudes the temperature was brutal. Even so, Steve still enjoyed the work.

Henry was a deck hand too, a company veteran with ten years working on the boats. He was also nominally Steve's boss when they were working, but it wasn't a problem. They quickly slipped into a routine and worked together easily. Neither of them talked much. Being on the same shift made it a bit hard to find privacy, but Steve'd spent years living on ships. He liked spending time with Henry so it wasn't too bad.

Even so, there were some things a man doesn't want an audience for. He had the hots for one of the new factory hands, a raven-haired young woman with plenty of spunk and the sort of fit, well defined, well cared for body that he really liked. She was also, if the rumors in the mess were anything to go by, working her way through the entire crew, male and female. If it was true, and he didn't think it actually was, there was going to be trouble. But it wasn't his trouble and he could enjoy the fantasy that one day she would work her way through the crew and get to him. He saw Henry heading into the shower at the end of their shift and took the opportunity to indulge in some of his fantasies in comfort, lying on his bunk. He imagined the girl riding his cock, her hair falling in a curtain, sweeping across his chest, and did a pretty good job of not remembering any of his previous lovers. He was close, hand pumping, hips lifting, rocking his cock into his fist, when the door opened.

"Shit!"

Henry did a double take. Then he laughed. He was still damp, moisture beading on his broad chest, towel wrapped around his middle. He walked in and shut the door. Steve lay there frozen.

"Don't stop for me." Henry smirked, showing his missing canine tooth, and groped his own crotch through the towel. Steve couldn't look away. Henry's hand worked inside the towel as he leaned back against his bunk. "Bit short of girls on this boat," he said casually. Then he stared straight at Steve. "Suck my cock?"

"Uhh?" His brain was like molasses but his body wanted, wanted so bad. Steve could suck cock. "Yeah. Okay." He turned his head to the side. Henry dropped his towel, bent his knees a little and fed his rapidly stiffening cock into Steve's mouth. It was thick and full and smelled clean with over notes of musk. Steve closed his eyes and took it. It had been a long, long time since he'd had another man's cock in his mouth and he loved it. Really loved it. He sucked and licked and fisted his own cock as Henry pumped into him. Steve came fast, barely managing to avoid doing Henry harm with his teeth, overwhelmed with the smells and sensations of another man's cock. Henry thrust a few more times, then pulled out, grunting and jerking, painting Steve's chest with warm spurts of come.

Henry's hand was braced on the wall above Steve's head, leaning over Steve as he panted, catching his breath. His eyes were closed. Steve stared up at him, scared stiff that he'd just ruined everything. That Henry would come to his senses and never want to see him again. They were barely a week into their time at sea and had no choice but to live and work in close proximity. Things could get really bad.

Henry suddenly staggered back the less than one step to sit on his own bed. He opened his eyes and smiled. "By god, boy. We'll keep you on." He flopped over onto his back and flung his arm over his eyes. "That was just what the doctor ordered." He rooted around and pulled his bedding up and over him. "You'd best go shower. Turn the light out on your way, would ya?" He gave a great yawn. "Christ. I'll sleep well tonight."

With a feeling of relief Steve realized that everything seemed to be okay. He wiped himself off with Henry's towel, wrapped it around his own waist and headed out to the shower. He paused in the doorway, trying to work out if he should say something but no words appeared in his head. "Turn out the bloody light," Henry said fondly. "Don't wake me when you get back."

Remarkably, nothing was different in the morning.

They still worked out on the deck together. Henry still sat with the other Samoan crew in the mess hall. Sometimes he sat beside Steve when they watched movies, most times he didn't. Some nights and even some early mornings before their shift, Steve sucked Henry's cock. Henry never reciprocated, but Steve hadn't ever expected him to.

Sucking cock was good, but he wouldn't be human if he didn't want more. One afternoon, warm again and freshly showered, on the high of surviving a hard shift, they crowded into their cabin, already hard. This time when Henry dropped his towel Steve did the same, turned his back to him and offered Henry his ass. "What?" Henry said stupidly.

Steve pressed up against him, carefully worked out words once again lost. "Please," he moaned, bending forward and bracing himself against the dresser. "Henry, please." His heart was pounding as he waited staring at the heaving sea outside the porthole, too scared to look at the other man. He nearly jumped out of his skin when two meaty hands landed on his hips then Henry's warm body plastered itself to his back. He shivered.

"Okay," Henry said. His cock pressed against Steve's butt and the two of them stood there, close, but not that close, automatically braced against the movement of the ship while they got used to the idea.

Steve widened his stance as his cheeks were pulled apart and Henry pressed the head of his cock up and down the crack between them. He could feel the trail of wetness Henry left. Scrabbling in his drawer he pulled out his tub of Mrs. Pepe's ointment, because it had never occurred to him to pack lube. Henry got the idea and after a bit of awkward fumbling he was sliding in and Steve was shoving back to meet him and the heavy rolling of the boat just added to the sensation. It was fantastically good but it didn't mean anything and they both knew that.

One night Steve woke, flailing in terror from a nightmare of guns and telephones and helplessness, to find strong arms lifting him out of his sweaty wrecked bed and pulling him in against a warm, strong chest on the other bunk. "Shhhh," Henry said. "Shhhhh. It's all right."

"You doin' anything 'bout those dreams of yours?" Henry asked the next morning, still spooned tightly round him. "'Cause I know they happen lots."

Steve shuddered. "I'm all right." And he was. He had a job he liked that he could do well. It kept him busy so he didn't have time to think about anything from the past. No one was depending on him. He was as fit and healthy as he'd ever been physically and he hadn't had a headache in well over a year. So he was never going to be as mentally fit as he'd been in the past, but he was functioning well and this was pretty much as good as it was going to get. A few nightmares were nothing. "I'm good."

Henry grunted and let it go.

Several times a week Steve would wake up in Henry's bunk with no memory of getting there. It felt nice to be cared about. It was a completely different thing to the sex.

When their stint at sea ended, Steve, Henry and about a dozen others caught the flight back to Auckland together. When they went through the door into the arrivals hall Henry was mugged by three small brown children who threw themselves into his arms. The beaming smile on his face brought tears to Steve's eyes. A round, pretty woman in a bright print dress looked indulgently on before holding her arms open and being crushed into her own Henry hug. It was the sort of homecoming due to any sailor home from the sea. Henry gave Steve a happy smile. "See ya in six weeks." The crew all waved and dispersed.

Steve refused to admit he was lonely. He had the life he wanted. He had a life he could manage and was actually doing well at. He had a bank account that was looking quite healthy. He lived in a boat.

Winter was on its way and while Auckland had a mild climate, it was still a heck of a lot colder than Hawaii or Fiji. It was considerably warmer than the southern ocean, but unlike the factory ship, Steve's boat didn't have heating. He lay on his bed with an extra sleeping bag spread over him and stared at the ceiling that was barely two feet above his face. He didn't want to live on a boat any more.

The internet is a wonderful thing. By the next morning Steve had thirty-three houses to consider. He had a few things he was looking for. The place had to be affordable, it had to be able to be left for six week time slots and it had to be near a beach.

He used a bit of deductive reasoning on real estate double speak and weeded out half of the list. Then he picked out three he really liked the sound of, with a short list of another three, worked out the bus route to find them and went for a look. He wasn't going to bring in real estate agents until the very last minute. As soon as they started their sales pitch he knew he'd lose all ability to make things happen his way.

What was advertised as a 'Flat with a sea view' in Blockhouse Bay turned out to be a small but new apartment unit behind an older house. It would be easy care with no garden to speak of, but the only way it had a sea view was if you stood on the roof. It was interesting, though, how much Auckland's suburbia resembled Honolulu's. Cities built on volcanic Pacific islands and settled by British missionaries around the same time had tended to grow in similar directions with similar architecture.

The apartment in Takapuna was exactly that, an apartment on the second floor of a block that did have a fantastic sea view. Sadly the rent reflected the view of the entire Hauraki Gulf, huge. While he could actually afford it, Steve didn't want to live on top of too many other people.

The third place was actually for sale rather than for rent and Steve found himself on the familiar bus to the west coast. The cottage was above KareKare beach, the next beach to the south from Piha, his happy surfing beach. He got off the bus at the top of the hill and walked down the winding road through native bush and birdsong until he found the address. 15a shared the same gravel driveway winding out of sight into the trees as 13, 15 and 17. Steve wandered down the drive and melted into the bush when houses came into sight. He worked his way through what was nearly a jungle until he found himself on a cliff top, the mighty Tasman sea pounding onto rocks way below him. He smelled the familiar coastal scent of salt, seaweed mixed with leaf mulch, and felt at home. With baited breath he worked around, getting an idea of the layout of the place. He spotted it. The little house matched the photos on the for sale ad but it was so much better, a small cottage with wide glass doors opening out onto a wooden terrace decorated with driftwood and sea wrack. There was a chimney poking out of the roof with a seagull shaped weather vane on a pole above it. The other houses were close but not too close. "Oh," he said quietly. He was already in love.

He could buy a bike and cycle over to Piha. He'd buy himself a new board.

There was no point in looking at anything else. Steve went home, emailed the real estate agent and paid the asking price without haggling at all.

The agent was rather bemused. She also felt it to be nearly unethical to sell a property without the buyer actually viewing it. It was an argument he'd never have won over the phone but by email Steve stuck to his guns. He couldn't say he'd already seen it so he didn't say anything. He wanted it, he'd have it.

It felt like it was really meant to be when it turned out to be an estate sale. The cottage was already empty so he didn't have to wait for possession. He could take occupation as soon as the funds cleared, and if he was interested he could have the previous owner's furniture thrown in.

Steve packed down the boat. He wouldn't sell it yet, in case the house turned out not be what he wanted. He collected the keys two weeks before he went back to work, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and caught the bus.

Once again he seemed to have bought well. The house was small, really only three rooms, but it didn't feel small at all (and especially not compared to the boat). He stood in his living room, turning in a circle, taking it in, feeling a huge smile stretch his face. An open plan living room and kitchen made up the main room. A log-burner stove in the corner was already laid with paper and kindling in the grate. An old leather sofa and even more battered recliner snuggled around the fire. A large sliding glass door opened onto a wooden deck where a wooden table and two Adirondack chairs were placed to take in the view. The chairs made something funny happen in his chest.

Two doors led off the living room. One led into a passageway that ended at the back door. There were a washing machine and laundry tub in an alcove and an old revolving clothes line at the end of a little concrete path on the back lawn. A door opposite the tub opened into a poky little bathroom. It was adequate: shower, hand basin and toilet. Whatever the bathroom lacked was made up by what was behind the other door off the living room. That door led into a sun-drenched bedroom nearly as large as the main room. There was an old double bed, saggy and well used, and a tired chest of drawers and wardrobe. He'd organize new bedroom furniture but it would do for now. He barely glanced at it. Large picture windows looked out to sea. Steve flung open the windows and felt like he'd just arrived home.

He was sitting on the deck making shopping lists when a rustle in the shrubbery made him jump. Purple hair preceded an elfin face, and an androgynous teenager popped through the hole in the hedge. The kid grinned and came and plonked into the other chair. "My name's V and we live over there." That was the house on the other side of the scruffy row of shrubs the kid had come through. "This was my granddad's cottage." The tone was slightly sulky. Skinny arms crossed over a skinny chest. A tongue stud made a brief display. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to look tough. "I told Dad I'd come and say hello."

"Hello," he said, trying to figure out what he ought to reply. "I'm John Chung. I'm sorry about your granddad."

"Yeah," the kid said and sighed. He couldn't see an Adam's apple when the kid swallowed, but maybe they weren't quite old enough to have one. He turned away and gave his visitor time to collect her/himself.

He continued with his list and added tea towels and dish cloths. "I really like it here."

"You're American," V said accusingly.

"Yes?" He turned his body so he could see her easier. There were no real clues but he just felt V was a girl. "Is that bad?"

"Do you surf?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Yes. I surf."

"Okay, then."

V took him inside and showed him the idiosyncrasies of the hot water heater and how to work the various remotes needed to get the TV to actually show TV. Then V came to a halt in the center of the living room. "I suppose I should go." The tongue stud was flicked against slightly crooked white teeth. "Homework and stuff."

"You used to spend a lot of time here?" he asked. "With your granddad?"

"Yeah. Me and Dad…" The skinny shoulders shrugged. "It was better here."

He understood that feeling of sadness. "Can you look after the place for me while I'm away?"

V nodded. "You know, you're the first person who hasn't me how to spell my name."

"You're the first person who hasn't asked me about my eye."

A shy smile spread across the kid's face. V made something that might have been a peace sign, or possibly a rude gesture. "Just the letter."

"I was a soldier," he said. It was close enough.

"Cool."

As he got ready for bed that night he discovered there was a full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He was taken completely by surprise, not having seen anything other than a small shaving mirror since he'd stayed with the Pepe relatives in Otara nearly six months ago.

The man in the mirror wasn't quite the stranger the reflection had shown that time. He was thin and sinewy, strong and weathered. He looked like a fisherman, or a pirate. Pirate John. Intrigued he dropped his towel. The house was warm from the fire he'd lit when the sun set. He'd already taken off the eye patch when he'd undressed for the shower and now he stood and cataloged the man he'd become. The scars were still there, still prominent, but weathered, part of the fabric of his body in a way he'd never thought they'd ever be. His face was vaguely crooked, the damaged cheekbone and eye orbit making his face narrower on the left. But he didn't look bad, wouldn't scare children in the street. He tried to take a more objective look. He could do with putting on a bit more weight, bulking up a little. That was hard. On the ship the food was good but it was physically hard work and he burned off everything he ate. That was the difference in his body, even when he'd been in the service, he'd worked at keeping fit, keeping his body in tip top shape because the job demanded it and because he liked it. This body though, this body — he flexed his triceps, pulled a pose — this body had happened when he wasn't looking. It was honed by what it did. This body did what he asked of it and it did it well.

He looked at himself from every angle. This man was not Steve McGarrett. It was good to know that his external and internal perceptions matched.

"Goodnight, John," he told the man in the mirror.

Tomorrow he'd go into the mall in Titirangi and buy bedding, a new bed and groceries. Satisfied and at peace he turned out the light and climbed into his sleeping bag. Even this high up he could hear the waves pounding on the cliffs way below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Greater Than the Sum of Its Parts.2**

John Chung and Henry roomed together again. They picked up their non-relationship again too; fuck buddies, or 'making the most of what was available', as Henry put it. John had thought to take a large bottle of lube and a box of condoms with him this trip. He liked to be fucked, Henry liked fucking him. It was human contact. And sometimes Henry held him during heaving, unhappy nights. It was enough.

It was still winter in the deep south, even though the days had started lengthening. Everything that happened on deck was just that much harder, hampered as they were by layers of clothing and waterproofs. It didn't help that as well as their regular work they had to continually use axes and sledgehammers to knock ice off the superstructure, winches and equipment. The wind roared across the ocean, trying to blow through them, throwing them across the icy, slippery deck. Working outside was twice as hard as it had been. Spring storms whipped the sea to a fury. Down in the bowels of the ship, in the factory, the workers belted themselves in to their work stations and clamored for more fish. Up on the deck, the lines rolled out and came back in, heaving with fish, regardless of the weather.

He was too exhausted for nightmares.

Most of the time.

He woke one morning to find himself cramped and smothered, Henry's heavy body wrapped around him. A heavy sense of foreboding followed him out of bed and into the mess, and didn't go away when the two of them struggled into their gear and slid out onto the deck. It was six am, a thin streak of gray sky showing above the ocean to the east, probably the only sign of the sun they were going to get all day. John shivered. He couldn't remember his dream, didn't remember Henry pulling him into his bed, he just felt wrong.

He was clumsy and wrong-footed all day. He nearly lost his finger, catching his glove in a pulley, and his hammer slipped off the ice he'd been battering and he took the full force of the swing on his shin.

Bruised but not broken was the medic's verdict when Caleb, the new deck hand, helped him to the sick bay. He didn't even get a full day off work.

Life went on.

The day disaster struck he didn't feel any warning at all. That morning as they came out on deck the sun was rising into a clear blue sky. The sea was never smooth but the weather was settled and the swell a comparatively calm two to three metres. He was getting used to metrics. The lines and length of traces, distances between hooks and other things were measured in metres. The catch was measured in tonnes.

Steve was pulling the grappling hooks that he would use to help guide the incoming line into the correct position out of their locker while Caleb prepped the winch to pull in the starboard line. The replacement line, thousands of hooks already baited by machine, was ready to go. The turnaround time was incredibly fast, but they were used to it. It was what they did.

John wasn't paying attention. He was glaring at one of the factory workers who'd come on deck for a quick smoke, wearing only indoor clothes. He was waiting for the fish to start coming in, ready to go to work, when he realized that the line wasn't coming up. Henry looked up from where he was checking the rigging of the life boat hanging from divots on the stern, something he did every morning. The line or possibly the cable leading to it must have caught on something and the winch was still running. Caleb wasn't sure what to do and was trying to make the winch drop down a gear and pull harder while John tried to wave at him across the deck, and he and Henry both shouted, "Turn it off."

"Turn it off."

The sounds of the wind and ocean made it impossible to hear anyone else on the deck.

There was a crack that could be heard even over the waves and the wind. Like a cut snake the broken steel rope writhed, whip fast and deadly as the tension released. Henry was flung through the air to land like a pile of rags by the open hole in the floor that was waiting to receive their catch, a sudden shock of red spreading out across the wet deck.

Sheer instinct took John across the hold, skidding to a stop beside his friend. He'd already made an assessment. His hands knew what to do before his mind had accepted what he didn't want to notice. Henry's right leg was missing below mid-thigh. John yanked the mangled remains of Henry's waterproofs and woollen long johns away from the stump, and shoved his fingers unerringly into the wound, finding the artery and pinching it shut.

A slightly hysterical corner of his mind noted that Henry's leg had been severed just below his Samoan traditional tattoo.

No one else was injured. A miracle under the circumstances.

Another miracle was about to take place.

The ship was at the very outer limits of helicopter range from the very south of the South Island of New Zealand. If a helicopter attempted to fly out to them, they would have less than fifteen minutes to turn around, to be able to make it back to land before the fuel ran out. The ship turned and started running, top speed, back towards New Zealand, hoping to lessen just slightly the distance involved.

Their medic started an IV. Henry was carefully loaded into the ship's scoop stretcher. John didn't let go. When the winch rope and a paramedic arrived with the helicopter two and a half hours later, John lay on top of Henry, face down, and they strapped him in over the top before winching all three of them up together. There was no winch man, just the pilot and paramedic to make the load lighter. The paramedic had to get himself on board before easing the heavy gurney inside. John's cramped fingers held on.

It was hot in the helicopter. The paramedic gave him water, holding the bottle for him. Then he cut his wet weather gear and jersey off him so he didn't have to let go. Both of them knew that it wasn't practical to try and swap places. The paramedic could do more for Henry with both his hands free. Henry, unfortunately for him, stayed conscious the whole trip, floating on a cloud of morphine that was injected into his IV.

The helo had barely five minutes more fuel left when it touched down on the helipad at Southland Base Hospital in Invercargill, roughly two hundred miles from where they'd left the ship. It was some of the gutsiest flying John had ever seen.

A doctor was there with artery forceps. He could finally let go.

The relief was momentary. After five hours of holding on, his arm went into spasm and he finally felt the cramp. His mind did something similar and he collapsed in an aching, shaking heap. He spent a night in the hospital too.

John was never actually admitted, just kept overnight on a cot in the ER, under observation for shock. He was grateful, he had nowhere to go and nothing except his boots and underwear to go there in. He'd even lost his eye patch.

He was still covered in Henry's blood when he was interviewed by a police detective wanting to know about the accident. He supposed that with a rescue flight that had literally pushed the boundaries of helicopter flight, the whole world knew about the accident. A couple of hours later, after he'd showered and dressed in scrubs, a woman from Occupational Health and Safety came to ask a very probing list of questions. She had scary hair that didn't seem to move with her body movements and wanted to know much more about conditions on the ship than just the circumstances of the accident. He thought she wouldn't know anything much about fishing boats but her questions proved him wrong.

It took all his hard won social skills not to simply curl up in a ball and ignore her. He was exhausted, and Henry was apparently still in surgery.

It was just after tea time when a small woman dressed in scrubs knocked on the partition. She smiled at him tiredly. John recognized that look, exhaustion mixed with pride of a job well done. He'd seen it on combat teams after a successful mission. "I'm Henry's surgeon," she said quietly. "I thought you'd like to know. He's out of surgery and he's going to be fine." She gave a quiet snort and shrugged. "Well, you know, he hasn't got his leg, but we've tidied everything up, given him plenty of blood and he should recover well. You did a great job. If you hadn't done what you did he'd never have survived." She sank into the plastic chair by his bed. "Have you got some medical training?"

"Combat first aid." Relief made John weak and he was pleased he was on a bed. He could see that his answer intrigued the doctor so he changed the subject. "His wife? Susan…?"

"Apparently your company's already contacted her. Do you need us to contact anyone for you?"

John shook his head. "No, thank you. I haven't got anyone in this country." The pinch of loneliness hurt. He was never going to work with Henry again, either.

He was offered a sedative when the staff noticed he wasn't sleeping. While the noise level in the ER wasn't exactly conducive to sleep, once upon a time he'd been good at sleeping in just about any condition. It wasn't the noise and the lights that were keeping him awake.

…If he'd run the winch instead of trusting Caleb… If he'd moved when he noticed the cable winch straining… If, if… What if?

If he hadn't trusted Wo Fat to keep them both safe. If he'd taken the left-hand door. If Danny, damn his loyal soul, hadn't been following them…

He cowered on the bed, overwhelmed like he hadn't been in years. With the edges of a headache brewing, he accepted the pill. And woke in the morning feeling ragged around the edges, still vaguely headachy, but not incapacitated. Breakfast helped.

Breakfast also came with a friendly woman named Caroline representing the fishing company. She didn't actually work for the company, she told him; her sister in Auckland did. She brought a message of thanks from the CEO for John's heroic efforts, but even better, she had clothes for him. She was one of those people who have to apologize for everything. The clothes were only cheap chain store gear and she hadn't known his size. John didn't mind. The stuff was one size too big but he wouldn't have to leave the hospital wearing scrubs. Caroline had also brought him an air ticket home to Auckland and $500 in cash for whatever he might need on the way.

The hospital provided him with a toothbrush, a razor, and a cheap and nasty eye patch that would have to do until he got his kit bag back from the boat with his good spare patch in it.

He had a sudden thought. Someone was going to have to pack up his and Henry's cabin. They'd find the lube and condoms. God knew what they'd think. He just hoped the things got packed in his bag and not Henry's. He didn't think Susan would be too pleased to find out about them.

The plane got into Auckland just after 10pm, but it was nearly midnight when he arrived home in Karekare and paid off the taxi with the chit provided by the company. He thanked his lucky stars that he'd left a key under the ugly gnome by the side of the deck so that V could come in and look after the place. His own key was another thing still on the ship in the southern ocean.

He made himself a cup of licorice tea. He'd taken to drinking it before bed when he'd been home last time. He took his drink and sat out on the deck looking at the trail of the moon on the sea. He was disorientated and at the same time he was peaceful and content. Henry had been awake enough to slur a thank you when he'd briefly visited before Caroline took him to the airport. Henry mightn't have his leg but he was alive, and he'd learn to cope.

And John, now he'd had time to process what had happened, realized that he'd done good. He'd done more than done good, he'd done something extraordinary, something more than just what an ordinary fisherman might have done. He might not be fast with his words but in an emergency situation he could react, like he used to, like Steve McGarrett used to. After all this time he thought he'd lost that guy.

He turned the hot water cylinder on and went to bed.

When he woke in the morning it was to the awareness that there was someone in his house. It was the old Steve McGarrett that reacted. V was just lucky that he recognized her voice singing to herself before he got out of the bedroom. She was setting up a laptop on the dining table which already had a large pile of books. She was wearing a school uniform and there was no longer any doubt that she was female. The checked skirt and white blouse gave that away. John slunk back into his bedroom and put some clothes on. "Er. Hello," he said when he came back out.

She shrieked and fell backwards onto her ass. It was gratifying.

"Not at school, I see?"

"Not on a fishing boat," she fired right back, glaring up at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "In my house," he emphasized. He offered his hand and pulled her up off the floor.

"It's study week and we're allowed to stay at home, but Dad says I need to go in and make use of the library and all the resources and like, what? I can do all of that online but he doesn't get any of that so…" she waved a hand indicating her and the house. "Um."

"My house."

"I used to be here all the time with Granddad."

John got that, he really did, but he didn't need a pet and he was terribly aware that he could get into awful strife just from being around an underage teenage girl unchaperoned. "My house," he said again gently.

"You're not even supposed to be here."

"That key was supposed to be for emergencies and so you could get me some groceries before I was due back."

"And that's what I was going to do but you're not supposed to be back for another two weeks."

"And you're not supposed to be in my house."

V sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry." She started gathering her stuff together. "I'll go. Don't tell Dad. Okay? He'll do his nut."

She looked so dispirited that John crumbled. "Hold on. Can you cook?"

When she was puzzled V's left eyebrow quirked. "Sort of. Sometimes. Why?"

"I'm going to have a shower. Make me some breakfast and I'll let you stay."

Two days later, on Saturday, John finally got to meet V's father, Bryan, and had an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation, the gist of which was if John did anything to hurt V, or even looked at her wrong, he was going to lose his knackers. In spite of the unfamiliar terminology he knew exactly what was meant. Bryan then invited him over later in the evening to watch the game. John didn't even know what type of game it would be, but he took beer, figuring that couldn't be wrong. It turned out to be exactly right, and V and Bryan introduced him to the complexities of rugby.

He did one more stint on the fishing boat but his heart wasn't in it anymore. The accident had changed his feeling about the work, in more ways than one. He kept double checking everything and riding the new hands hard. It didn't make him any friends. It was fucking hard work and somehow that wasn't soothing anymore. He wanted to do more. He wanted to use his brain.

On his arrival home he handed in his notice. He'd worked for the company nearly a year, and he wasn't the same man he'd been when he'd signed on. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he took a leap and once again trusted that things would work out. It was high summer and he threw himself into really learning about his new home. Karekare, where his cottage (which the locals called a bach) perched above the cliffs, was part of an area of rugged, forest-covered hills with high cliffs and wild surf beaches. Steve bought himself two bikes, a road bike and a mountain bike, and covered huge distances on them both. Karekare, Piha and the surf beaches made a strange sort of community, with many of the houses used as vacation homes, so that during the winter the place was very sparsely populated but became overrun with people in the summer. Piha beach, just to the north, was extremely popular with day trippers, and many hikers wandered the trails that ran through gullies and spurs of the park. It was a little like the nature reserves on Oahu.

He joined the surf club at Piha and found not just surfing, but a social life with other locals and a sort of 'us against them' thing happening between the locals and the visitors. It was nice to be part of an 'us'. On a whim he did the Surf Lifesaving training and then he was really an 'us'. The lifesavers were a tight-knit team of volunteers who patrolled the beaches, rescuing people who nearly always had vastly underestimated the west coast's ability to ruin their day. As well as rescuing people, Surf Lifesaving in New Zealand was a sport, with competitions where the clubs tested their skills against other clubs from around the country. Huge surf carnivals were held over the summer. That first year John helped the Piha club with the logistics of hosting the heats. By his second year as a lifesaver, John was in one of the top teams.

Through the surf club John learned about the volunteer fire brigade, and he did that training too. He'd already learned most of the skills taught, but it was applying them in civilian situations that made things very difficult. He had to do some special tests to prove that the lack of binocular vision wouldn't stop him from being able to do the work. He also resurrected John Chung's driver's license and did the test to get a New Zealand one. He then went through the process and testing to get his heavy traffic endorsement so he could drive the engine, only to fall at the final hurdle, the lack of binocular vision again. He could drive a car but not a truck. It was a shame he couldn't have used Steve McGarrett's license, which contained a heap of endorsements.

The volunteer brigade members had to carry pagers at all times when on call. He bought a car so as to be able to make it to the station within the response time. They attended house fires, scrub and bush fires, and as first responders, quite a few car accidents, some of which were horrific. It didn't help that, as Steve, he had seen worse; seeing bodies pointlessly mangled never got any better. The camaraderie of the team, though, that certainly helped.

Who would have guessed it, but New Zealanders could make anything a sport. The Piha Volunteer Brigade placed third in the national Fire Fighters games, against some professional brigades. They were all pretty pleased with themselves.

John was settled, and he had a (mortgage free) home and friends, but the money was running out. Then he heard that the Titirangi Fire Brigade, the professional suburban station closer into the city, was hiring for their full-time crew. Things had indeed worked out.

He did have one bad moment when he had to be passed as medically fit for the job. Considering what the job was, that made perfect sense. He found a local doctor and was pleased when John Chung's medical history was taken at face value. To be fair, it would never have occurred to a suburban GP to question what was in front of him.

All was going well until the doctor asked if he'd had any after affects from the bout of rheumatic fever he'd suffered as a child. John sat there opening and closing his mouth like a brain-damaged fish because John had never had rheumatic fever but Steve had. John's notes had only ever been meant as a back-up, in case he'd needed care in the months after escaping the home. He hadn't had time or mental capacity to make them anymore than that.

He hadn't needed them after his escape and he hadn't seen a doctor in years. Yet in the intervening years, somewhere, sometime, someone had merged his real medical records with John Chung's.

It had to have been Chin.

The doctor pronounced him perfectly healthy, but because of the nature of the job he was applying for, both he and the fire department requested he have a full neurological exam. He went through the works, with a brain scan thrown in for good measure. It cost a fortune, and he got more and more nervous as the technician quizzed him, made him do puzzles and asked intimate questions on every aspect of his life.

His doctor called him back in for the results and sat him down in the chair by his desk. Then he smiled. "No neuro deficits and no cognitive impairment. You're a highly functioning individual." The man knew his history. He knew that John had been a barely functioning version of a human being a few years ago. "Congratulations, you're completely normal."

John's stomach flipped. It meant everything.

Sometime, somewhere, between sailing across the Pacific, being a fisherman and finding a home, his brain had healed.

The Piha voluntary fire brigade gave him a rousing send-off that involved an inebriated stripper and one hell of a hangover for everyone present. They gave him hell about turning pro. The stripper did a private service on request. His mates paid for that too.

Fire-fighting was seen as an essential service, so John had absolutely no trouble renewing his work visa.

He liked being a fireman. It was physical, dangerous and very similar in many ways to being a combat officer. There were long periods of boredom and brief periods of high adrenaline action. He was good at it. Three months into the job he got his first genuine call out to rescue a kitten from a tree, and he and the team laughed and laughed and rescued the stupid furry thing.

They attended house fires, scrub fires, fires in warehouses, and their fair share of car accidents. Some of it was gut wrenching. The night after two small boys died in a blazing house, John staggered home, the stench of burning still thick in his nostrils in spite of having showered and changed at work. His teammates all had young families and had gone home to hug their kids, leaving him alone and bereft. But what was known as the bush telegraph worked really well in these situations and the community was already banding together to support the parents and the fire fighters, ambulance and police officers who had been there. Yvonne, a woman from the surf club, arrived at the cottage and dragged him down to the club, where many people were gathering for something resembling a wake. People bought him drinks all night, which was a complete waste of their money as he chundered it up (a local term) in the sand hills behind the building. Yvonne found him stretched out on a dune, tears streaming down his face, covered in vomit and sand. She took his hand and led him home to her house up in the township, undressed them both and gently showered him before tucking him into her bed and sliding in beside him. John passed out, but in the morning they had sex, achingly sweet and slow.

Between the surf club and the fire brigade, John was easily assimilated into the small community. He admitted to having been in military service and let people think he'd gotten his injuries in combat. Well, he had, really. If he was a little weird, it didn't matter; the slightly hippie community embraced oddness, and he was by no means the weirdest person around. He might be odd, but he was one of theirs and they looked out for him. V was odd too and she got on just fine.

On V's sixteenth birthday John and Bryan got beer and set up camp on lawn chairs on Bryan's back lawn. They watched the entire teenage component of the local community gyrate and writhe to ghastly music in Bryan's living room. They were pretty sure the punch had been spiked. "Has V ever come on to you?" Bryan asked out of the blue.

"Jesus." John nearly choked on his beer. "No. What? No!" Adrenaline zinged through him but Bryan seemed completely relaxed, slouched back in his chair and not about to leap into action and defend his daughter's honor. "Why would you say that?"

"I don't think I've ever seen her make a move on anyone ever. Male or female." He sighed and John realized Bryan was very drunk. "I worry about her. I'm crap at being a father."

"No, you're not. You're great." V's mother had apparently 'buggered off with the bastard from the bank' when V was three years old, and Bryan had never really gotten over it. "You've raised her single-handedly, and look," he indicated the youth invasion of his home, "all of these kids are here because they're friends with her. There's nothing to worry about."

"I just want her to be happy," Bryan said.

John watched her, newly dyed scarlet hair flinging around like a dish mop as she leapt and laughed with the rest of them. "She is."

Later in the night the kids dragged all the living room furniture and every mattress in the house out onto the lawn and turned down the music and looked up at the stars. There was a familiar 'herbal' smell in the air. A bonfire would have been nice but there was a fire ban in place. Blankets were passed out and it seemed that most of the party was intending to stay right where they were until morning. Bryan made them give his mattress back and went to bed. John stretched out in the shadows under the hedge and kept a quiet eye on things. For the first time in ages he thought of Grace. It was a month until her sixteenth birthday. He wondered what her party would be like. Probably nothing like this. He'd find something and send her a gift.

Time moved on.

He saw Yvonne, on and off. She was a solo mother, loud and brash and heart of gold. She didn't want a commitment or even a lover. She wanted sex on her terms and mostly that seemed to mean free of diseases and someone she trusted not to 'do the dirty' on herself or her kids.

She was brusque about his issues with his scars. "Get over it. You're mostly whole, and with a dick like this," it was in her hand at the time, "no-one cares."

He occasionally hooked up with some of the Adonis-like surfer dudes who passed through in the summer, offering them a meal and to share his bed for however long they wanted to stay. It was usually only a few days and they moved on with promises to stay in touch. They never did.

Yvonne truly didn't seem to mind.

He saw a lot of Bryan and even more of V. She would turn up and try out some of her wacky social theory on him or discuss, new to her, versions of world politics and social justice. She decided to study political science. She felt it was entirely unfair that she was two generations too late to join the peace movement. She made John smile and kept him challenged.

They also surfed together and spent a lot of their spare summer time on the water. V wore a wetsuit for surfing and board shorts and rash vest for hanging out on the beach. Her hair was always an outrageous color in a weird undercut style and she had piercings in her nose, ears and tongue. She had plenty of friends, boys and girls. The teenagers surfed, trained and worked at surf rescue, hiked, cycled, skipped school and partied together. Because he wasn't a parent, John was sometimes tolerated and included in the group. He never saw V showing any romantic interest in anyone.

His first reaction when she walked into his living room one Sunday morning, climbed into his lap, and tried to kiss him was total surprise.

"V. What?" He pulled back. "What are you doing?"

She dropped her eyes. "I'm going to university next year. I can't be a virgin." Then she charged forward and mashed her lips to his.

"What? No." He shoved her back. "V?"

"I can't. Please. You're my friend."

John realized that he'd never have known what to do in a situation like this. It wasn't just the head injury. He carefully pushed her sideways and moved himself the other way. "Who says you can't be a virgin?"

V curled into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest. "None of my friends are virgins."

"So? Do you want to have sex?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She gave him what she must have thought was a sultry look from underneath her bangs. Her hair was purple again and had been for about a year. It was obviously her favorite color. Her brown eyes looked really dark. "You want to have sex. You've got a hard on."

That part of his anatomy twitched at the mention. "Pretty woman sits on my knee. Er… Yes, I've got a hard on. That doesn't mean I have to have sex. Men do have a choice."

"You think I'm pretty."

"Yes, I think you're pretty. I also think of you like a daughter, and this," he tried to show everything that was happening with a wave of his hand, "is making me really uncomfortable." He got up and put some distance between them.

"Oh." V's face had flushed brick red. "I just thought you'd do it, to help me out." She burrowed her head behind her knees. "I thought you'd want to. You're the only person I know who likes women and men."

Steve started to get an inkling as to what the problem really was. "And you're not sure if you're one or the other?"

"I'm a girl." She glared at him. "I've got breasts." She grabbed at one and brandished it. "And a vagina, but…" She deflated.

"You're not interested in boys?" God, this was like surfing a huge wave that could crash over his head and crush him.

"No." V gave a brief head shake and sank back into her huddle.

John stared at her. She looked so small and vulnerable. He took a leap. "And you're not interested in girls, either?"

He got a moan in response, which he took to mean no. Oh, god. "Sweetheart." He was at a loss. Carefully he sat down beside her but she didn't seem inclined to jump him again. "V. Everyone is different. There's a whole range of sexuality." He didn't want to blatantly say that some people had none. "None of it is wrong and none of it is right. You just have to be right for you." He was floundering, but V let him put an arm around her and pull her in against him. "You just have to be you, and it's no one's business but your own. If you're a virgin who's to know?"

They sat in silence for a while, V slowly relaxing and molding in against his side. "You'll find someone one day," he said. "Someone you'll love and they'll be just right for you and it will all be fine."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Did you find someone?"

The pain he felt when he remembered was familiar now, an ache that no longer made him gasp. He could even smile. "Yes, I did."

"What happened to her?"

"He died." He didn't realize he'd unconsciously touched the scar on his cheek until V pulled his hand away and replaced it with her own.

"When this happened to you?"

"Yes." And that pang did hurt.

"And then you came here?"

"By a roundabout route, but yes, then I came here."

V was watching him.

"What?"

"So you're bisexual?"

"Yes. Didn't you say that before?" and he remembered being a conflicted and confused teenager. He'd had no one to confide in. He could be here for V. "It took me years to work out my sexuality. I was military. If I'd been found out I'd have lost my job. So for years I hid my feelings, even from myself. It wasn't until I met Danny…" It was the first time he'd said the name since… Probably since he'd died. It took him a moment to speak again. "He could see me. The real me." His chest was tight but it wasn't crippling anymore. "Danny let me be me. I'd tried to be normal for all those years before and it just made me awkward and unhappy." He grinned. "Don't do that."

"I don't know what I am." She looked so lost.

"I know. And it doesn't matter. You're a wonderful, clever, loyal, fun, friend of mine." He took a breath, "And I need your help." He stood and pulled her up. "I'm trying to work out the roster of lifesavers for this damn schools' surfing competition. I had no idea it was such a big event when I said I'd help." Out of the corner of his eye he could see V pulling herself together. He woke the computer and opened the spreadsheet he'd been working on. "The North Beach club haa offered all their juniors to help. You know them better than me. Would Bronnie be able to lead a squad?"

V came to stand at his shoulder and read the screen. She sounded nearly normal when she spoke. "Bronnie's got all the qualifications but she's really fluffy, she couldn't lead a team. If things went bad she'd just sit in a corner and scream. Dillon would be better."

John fit Dillon's name in the box. "Okay. Good to know. What about you? What shifts shall I put your crew on?"

"I can do any day."

"What about school?"

Her lip curled up in a sneer. "Weekends, then," she said sulkily

An hour or so later they had the roster beaten into shape and V stood up to go home for her lunch. John had been thinking hard about what to say to her. "V?" She turned to face him. "Sex is fun, okay? I'm not saying it's not. And I don't think the old 'save it till you're married' thing applies anymore at all, but," damn, his words were leaving him again, "sex isn't fun if you don't want to do it. Don't ever let anyone talk you into doing it if you don't want to. Okay?"

She smiled. The bubbly teenager was nearly back to normal. "Yeah. Okay."

"And V?" He smiled at her fondly. "I'm honored that you asked me. Really. But don't do it again. You scared the crap out of me."

She laughed out loud and left with a spring in her step.

The World High Schools Surf Contest had seemed like a good idea back when the club had bid to host it. Once they'd won, though, the logistics became a pain in the ass. "I cannot believe," Bryan groused, "that our paraplegic toilet is not up to standard. It's going to cost a couple of thousand to bring it up to spec, even if we do all the work ourselves. And then no-one will ever use it."

"I heard that one of the teams has a manager in a wheelchair," V said as she breezed through.

"I can't believe how many countries have schools that surf," John said. "Did you have any idea what we were letting ourselves in for?"

"Nah, mate." Bryan clinked his bottle against his.

"I assumed that the 'World' part of the title meant that there was a team from Australia tacked on to the local teams, or something like that."

Bryan snorted. "Wrong." He ticked the teams off on his fingers. "Australia, New Caledonia, Japan, South Africa, England, France, the Ukraine; that's a surprise, have they even got a coast? Then we've got Canada and your lot from the USA. And us, of course. We're going to have to extend the car park."

The day before the contest's opening ceremony John checked that all the countries' flags were present. He got a surprising pang out of seeing the Stars and Stripes folded there in the pile.

He went outside to check that the flagpoles were all strung correctly, only to find that the one on the end was sticking when he tried to run a pennant up the pole. The parking area was full with the team buses and the beach was packed with young people, many of them in the water trying out the conditions, others just enjoying the beach and relaxing before the pressure of the contest. The heats were being held at several other beaches along the coast as well as at Piha, but the finals and the opening ceremony were happening here. It was a big deal. There were hundreds of people converging on the beach and TV cameras had been setting up all day.

The US team was congregated over at the far end of the beach. He thought he might go over and say hello when he'd finished up with the flagpoles. The kids were probably mostly from California, but there might be some from Hawaii. It would be nice to find out. He gave the rope a yank but nothing happened. He cursed; it looked like he was going to have to drop the pole back down to fix the pulley. Still, it was better to find out now rather than tomorrow during the ceremony. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted V, who was supposed to be at school. It was her last couple of weeks before her final exams. She shouldn't be taking time off now. He was furious. He yanked the rope harder and it moved. "Yes." He'd give V a piece of his mind later. He stepped backwards to stare up at the pole and knocked into a girl walking up the path. "Sorry."

He didn't know her. About V's age, five foot five, tanned, dark hair worn short, tee shirt and shorts. The tee shirt he did recognize, Kukui High School's logo on its left breast. If he thought the Stars and Striped had moved him, then that nearly forgotten logo swamped him with memories of school days. He smiled. "Hi."

She stopped and gaped. "Uncle Steve?"

"Jesus." With a jarring feeling of disconnect, he did know her. He grabbed on to the flagpole to stay upright. "Grace?"

A huge smile spread across her face and it was her mother he saw. "You are here. Uncle Chin thought you might be." She grabbed his arms and pulled him into a hug. "It's so awesome to see you."

Shock knocked the breath out of his chest. He hadn't expected to see her. It had never occurred to him that she might be in a team, but maybe it should have. Grace had loved surfing, in spite of her father's reluctance. Why wouldn't she be a champion surfer? "Grace…" He fought to take air in. "Oh, my god." He hugged her back. She smelled of sunscreen and salt water and something else he realized he recognized, Grace herself.

His knees were weak and he held on, his chest tight. "I never thought I'd ever see you again," he told the top of her head. Biting his lip he pulled back and peered at her. There were tears in her eyes. Steve thought his own smile was going to split his face. "You have grown up… so beautiful."

She grinned back. "Good genes," she joked. "You look good too."

"Thanks." And his words left him. Too many thoughts tangled through his brain, he couldn't figure out what to ask, what to say, but he couldn't let her go. He didn't even know what to do next.

He wasn't sure he wasn't dreaming.

Then Grace turned back over her shoulder and shouted, "Hey, Danno. I found him."

He knew he had to be dreaming. Or at the very least he'd misheard. He took a choked breath and turned to follow her gaze. At first his eyes slid past. By the buses there was a man in a wheelchair checking gear in one of the luggage holds against a clipboard. Then his eyes slid back to familiar shoulders, blond hair. "Danno?" His heart stuttered and Grace grabbed for him as he staggered.

The guy looked up. And stared. He flung the clipboard at the bus and surged towards them, powerful arms powering the sports chair up the track. "Steve?"

Steve sat down.

He found himself looking up into a beloved face. A face he thought he'd forgotten but was so familiar. And concerned. And vaguely pissed off. "Oh, for god's sake," Danny's voice said. A hand shoved his head down between his knees. "Don't pass out on me, you idiot."

"You're dead," he told the sandy ground.

"No. Who told you that? What?" The hand on his head stroked his hair. "Hang on." The hand disappeared. There was a whump, and the next minute Danny was sitting on the ground beside him. "Who said I was dead?"

Tight pain filled his chest. He was having a heart attack. Hallucinating from lack of oxygen. "You were dead," he told the hallucination. "I saw you."

"What? When?" His head was forced down again. Grace sat on his other side.

"Then." He struggled to explain. "In the warehouse. The explosion. I saw your body. All broken." He choked. "Dead."

"Oh, Jesus." And he knew the sound of Danny winding up into a rant. "And nobody told you I wasn't? Hang on. You can't have seen anything in that warehouse. You were unconscious. You had half your face blown off. You were the one that nearly died."

"I saw you," Steve insisted.

"Not dead," Danny said and he nudged Steve.

Steve cautiously lifted his head and looked at him. He looked older, face fuller, gray among the gold in his hair. Danny smiled and his eyes were the same familiar blue. "Not dead," Steve agreed. "Oh god, Danny. I thought…"

"Oh, babe…" Danny looked at him like he was something precious and fragile.

Steve couldn't talk, could barely breathe, thought he might be sick. Danny's hand settled on the back of his neck. "Easy, babe."

They sat, quiet, the hive of preparations and activity swirling around them, but all Steve was aware of was the people, solid and real, on either side of him. "Well, I was hurt," Danny said after a time, "obviously. I was in the spinal unit for months. Then rehab was a bitch."

"I was in rehab too." Steve's world view was broken.

"And you didn't want visitors."

"You were dead."

"I'm sure someone told you I wasn't."

He took a deep lungful of the sea air. "I don't remember."

"Your head wasn't quite working right." Danny gently stroked the hair at the back of Steve's head. "You were pretty sick. You said you didn't want anyone to see you like that and we wanted to give you some say in your life. To be fair, it probably never occurred to anyone that you needed to be told again." He sighed. "And then you ran away and haven't been in touch."

"Oh, god." He tore his gaze away from Danny's eyes; stared out to sea, at the familiar beach that he knew so well. This morning he'd been feeling happy, content, excited about the contest, at home. Now his whole world was shaky. "I'm sorry."

"John?" V was suddenly standing right in front of him. "Dillon's got glandular fever, but I could lead his squad."

He stared at her blankly.

She dropped to crouch in front of him. "John? What's wrong?" And all of a sudden he didn't know if he was John or Steve anymore.

"He's had kind of a shock," Danny said. "Hi. I'm Danny Williams. I'm an old friend of Ste… John's."

"Danny?" V stared at Steve, obviously adding two and two, probably from the way he had to be the color of milk. "You're Danny?" She glared at him. "He thought you were dead."

"Yeah," Danny said sadly. "I've got that."

"Danny?" A boy came charging up from the bus parking area. "Have you found it?"

"Damn." Danny reached behind him, and with the ease of long practice swung himself up into the chair. His upper body strength had to be phenomenal as his legs dragged uselessly. "Sorry. I gotta sort this out. We've got a missing gear bag." He was already wheeling down the track. "Don't run away, McGarrett. I'll be right back. Grace," he turned back over his shoulder, "Make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Steve didn't think he could go anywhere if he wanted to. If he tried to stand up he'd keel over. V sat down where Danny had been. She and Grace were giving each other stink eyes. It was quite funny, really. Steve just sat and let things sink in. Both girls were touching him, a hand on either arm.

"You're competing, then?" V said to Grace. "I'm a lifesaver. Of course I can surf as well."

Grace, it turned out, wasn't just her high school's champion but was also Hawaiian State Champion in her age group. Danny would have been… oh, God. "Danny's alive."

Grace patted him. "Yeah."

Steve remembered something else. "You said Chin thought I might be here? Have you guys been keeping tabs on me?"

Grace grinned. "Of course, Uncle Steve."

"Steve?" V laughed. "I knew your name wasn't John but I thought it might be something more exotic than Steve."

That inanity was enough to kick-start his brain again. "Okay, princess, yuck it up. And no, you can't take Dillon's shifts. You've got another two weeks of school yet, remember."

"Oh, come on. You're here for the whole week. They're only study days. And besides, you're not my dad."

"I have had to take annual leave to be here and your dad would kill me if I put you on when you're supposed to be at school."

"Something like this is never going to happen again."

"She's right," Grace said.

He was finally able to stand. The world felt surprisingly solid under his feet. "Okay," he told V. "If your dad says yes, you can work as a lifeguard for the whole contest. But I want him to tell me that."

It was one of the weirdest days of his life. Grace kept close, mostly with a hand touching him somewhere. V kept close, glowering at Grace. Danny was busy. Danny was alive. Steve hadn't killed him. Danny was right over there. Danny was crippled and that, that was all his fault. He was Steve but he was John, and John was busy too, putting together the sound system, briefing his teams on what he expected of them during the week, handing out their brand new uniforms, stopping Arthur from panicking over the amount of toilet paper they'd bought for the week. He was John. He was Steve. Danny was right over there.

His head was going to explode.

He brushed Arthur off and headed down the beach flanked by his girls. The American team was running relay races in the sand. Even in a wheelchair Danny was a ball of compact energy urging them on. He still talked with his hands. Danny glanced up and saw him and just stopped dead, looking nearly as flabbergasted as Steve was. Danny's face broke into a huge smile. Steve's mind imploded. Danny might not have known where exactly Steve was or what he was doing, but he had known he was alive. Steve hadn't known that about Danny. Seeing him was overwhelming. He was losing it.

He stood rooted to the spot, Grace on his right, V on his left. Danny got a fond look on his face and came towards them. "Babe," he said softly. He reached up and took Steve's hand. "Grace. You want to make sure nobody wanders off? Get everyone in the water for another practice. Steve and I are going for a walk." He gave Steve a tug. "Come on, babe, show me this beach of yours." Then he turned to V. "And you're relieved of Rottweiler duties. I promise to bring him back in one piece. Okay?"

V glowered but gave a reluctant nod.

Way down at the north end of the beach, on the other side of Lion Rock, they stopped. Danny lifted himself out of his chair and dragged himself back up onto the dry sand. Steve couldn't stop staring at his useless legs. Danny patted the sand with his left hand. "Sit. Come on."

Steve sat. Had Danny done it deliberately, sat Steve so that Danny wasn't on his blind side, or had things just happened that way?

"Danny?"

"I'm real, if that's what you're wondering."

"Danny, what…?" He had so many questions.

"I'm fine. In case you were going to start guilt-tripping over this." He waved a hand over his legs. He was wearing jeans and sneakers. The shoes were completely unworn. "It took me some adjustment, and yeah, I was mad for a while, but my life's good now. I'm doing all right. Got Grace, got a good job, good friends." He grinned. "Someone was missing, but hey, you can't have it all."

"Good job?" Steve repeated stupidly.

Danny laughed. "I keep forgetting you don't know. I'm head of Five-O."

Steve gaped.

"Yeah, I don't get out in the field much, but I can still run things. My brain still works. I've got four field agents and an administrative assistant." Danny looked proud. "I got Lori back. We needed someone who knew the ropes and the right way to do things and when not to, if you know what I mean. We're a little bit bigger and probably a whole lot tamer than what we used to be but we've still got one hell of a hit rate. We're still the Governor's elite task force."

"Jesus." Steve flopped on his back and blinked at the sky. He was startled when he felt Danny's hand on his face.

"May I?" Danny asked gently.

Steve took in a ragged breath. Nodded.

"I'd never seen this," Danny said as his hand smoothed across the puckered skin on Steve's cheek. "I heard what had happened…" His fingers stopped against the strap of the eye patch. "Can I…?"

Steve shut his eye, not wanting to see Danny's face. He nodded again. The eye patch was lifted gently away.

"Babe," Danny breathed, his fingers ghosting over the skin. Steve felt Danny's breath against his cheek and then had to bite back a moan as he felt Danny's lips place a soft kiss on his ruined eye socket. "Babe," Danny said again quietly and then he replaced the patch and moved back.

The sounds of the waves were loud here but there were other noises too; seabirds, a lawn mower grinding away somewhere in the village, the wind in the trees and through the marram grass on the dunes. Steve didn't know if he should try to break the silence or not.

"I was angry," Danny said after a time, his voice coming from the sand near Steve's head. He must have lain down beside him. "I was so angry. I thought my life was over. I did the whole why me thing."

Tentatively Steve moved his hand, found Danny's, and felt something warm inside him when Danny's fingers twined with his.

"I wasn't angry with you," Danny said. "Not then. It wasn't your fault. And you'd been damaged too. You were so hurt, your life was changed more than mine was." Steve was going to argue that when he felt Danny shift, turned his head to look at him. Danny's eyes met his, hard and blue. "I was highly pissed off when you took off. I was coming for you, babe. I was still working on how to do it, how to pay for care givers, get us both what we needed to live together. Find a suitable house. I wasn't going to leave you there in that place."

"I thought you were dead," Steve's voice came out in an embarrassing squeak.

Danny looked sad. "I'm sorry."

They lay there some more, quiet. Then Danny started grousing about sand getting everywhere and sunshine and beaches in general. Steve was grateful. And freaked out. He couldn't even work out where to start with things he wanted, needed, to say.

"So this is what you do now?" Danny asked. "You're a lifeguard."

And Steve laughed. "Only for fun. It's volunteer." He grinned. He was proud of himself. Proud of what he'd done and achieved. "I'm a fireman. That's my job. I like it." He sat up. "Come home with me, Danny? You and Grace." He saw Danny grimace. "Just for dinner. Let me think…" The words were tangling up inside. He whacked himself on the forehead. "I still have trouble… My words aren't working. If I have longer…"

Danny leaned up on his elbows but he kept hold of Steve's hand. He was smiling fondly. "You were never any good with words." He pushed himself into a sitting position. "We can't come to dinner, babe. I'm sorry. I want to, but I'm the manager of a team of teenagers and it's the night before their competition starts. I'm the responsible adult here and I can't just ditch them." He pulled his chair closer and with a hand on either side swung himself back up into it. He made it look easy. He grinned down at Steve as he used his hands to tuck his legs back into the right place. "We are here for ten days and they will call at least one rest day. I'll come visit then."

Steve left the beach about four, after Danny had packed his charges back into their bus and they'd been driven off. He fumbled his front door lock and flung himself face down on the sofa. He was utterly exhausted. A confused, painful exhaustion like recovering from the brainstorm he'd had sailing to Fiji.

V must have filled in her father because the two of them bustled in later with food for the barbeque and a whole lot of beer. "I'm not calling you by a different name," Bryan told him. "That would just be too weird."

They were out on the deck, just finishing eating, when Yvonne arrived, finding her way around the edge of the house and coming to stop in front of Steve with her hands on her hips. She didn't even bother saying hello. "The rumors flying around the club are pretty incredible. That girl called you Uncle Steve. So, John, tell me. Who the hell are you, really?" He couldn't tell if she was actually pissed at him or not.

Bryan passed her a beer. He was practically biting his tongue to not ask anything and Steve appreciated that, he really did, but it probably was time to come clean. He swallowed and found the words weren't that hard to find. "My name's not really John Chung. But just about everything else you know about me is true." Haltingly and with the help of a lot more beer he told his friends, these people who had become his family, who he was and how he came to be here. It was difficult. His background was so tangled up and complicated that when he told the bare facts it sounded so unbelievable and tragic.

Wrung out and nearly incoherent, he staggered to the end of his story. Yvonne was holding his hand while V sat close on his other side. Bryan was on a lawn chair, leaning in close. They sat there watching the sun go down and then stayed put in the long twilight until it finally got dark. No-one got up to go inside and switch on the outside light.

Steve finally spoke. "What's the Maori word for family? Far…?"

"Whanau," V said, pronouncing the wh so that it sounded like an F.

His whanau. It meant the same as ohana in Hawaiian. V and Bryan were definitely whanau, and what he had with Yvonne, well, it wasn't a grand passion on either of their parts, but they cared about each other, were fond of each other. And she was still sitting here beside him.

"I had whanau in Hawaii too." He indicated them all. "And I had Danny." He was surprised, but Yvonne didn't let go of his hand. He chewed on his lip and ended up confessing, "I think… We were in love. I loved him."

"Does he want you to go back with him?" V asked, getting to the crux of things.

"I don't know."

"You don't have to make any decisions tonight," Bryan said. "But you probably should get some sleep. It's going to be a busy week."

Yvonne didn't stay the night.

After the opening ceremony the surf teams dispersed to various beaches for their heats. The American team were competing at Muriwai further up the coast. While Steve desperately wanted to see Danny and Grace, it was a lot less distracting to not have them there. And it gave him a bit of breathing space. He organized his lifeguards, took his turns on duty, ran up and down the hill from his house to the beach and managed, pretty much, to be so exhausted at bedtime that he had no choice but to sleep.

The heats were completed by Tuesday afternoon and as the weather seemed stable for the rest of the week, Wednesday was declared a rest day, with the semis to start on Thursday. He asked Danny to spend the day with him.

On Wednesday morning he drove up to where the team was staying in Titirangi in a big Scout Lodge. He had V with him. She and Grace had been Skyping, apparently. V was going to bus into the city with the American kids and show them the sights. She justified it to Steve by saying she was needed to make sure they didn't get lost. Steve didn't really care. He was just delighted to be able to have Danny to himself for the day.

"And I want you all back here by eight," Danny reminded his charges as they trooped out the door. "And for God's sake, make sure Maddie and Carrie don't do anything to injure themselves. We need them for the semis tomorrow. Don't eat anything weird, either. We're in a foreign country. They might put pineapples on pizza but who knows what the meat is."

Most of the kids seemed to decide he wasn't serious.

"Oh, and be careful crossing the road. Look both ways. In case you hadn't noticed these people are crazy and drive on the wrong side of the road."

Grace dropped a kiss on the top of his head. "Yes, Danno."

"Yes, Danno," the group chorused.

"Oh, go on," Danny waved his hands. "Get out of here. Have a great day."

"Bye, Uncle Steve," Grace said quietly. He could tell she was dying to stay. V gave Danny a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder as she left.

"So what do you want to do?" Steve asked when they'd gone. "I could take you sight-seeing. If I'd thought of it I could have gotten my boat ready and taken you sailing." An irregular pounding of his heart was making him breathless. "We could cruise up to the hot pools, or..."

Danny grabbed for his hand. "I just want to be with you. Okay? Let's go to your house. I want to see where you live."

Steve swallowed. "Okay," he nodded.

After a small glitch when Danny headed for the wrong side of the car, things went fine. Danny transferred himself across to the car seat, stopped Steve from helping, "I'm used to this, it's easier on my own," dragged his legs in and then fiddled with the chair until it folded, and let Steve stow it in the back. He grinned as Steve settled into the driver's seat. "This feels all wrong, you know." Steve had to turn his head to see him, but before he could apologize or even work out what was wrong Danny was laughing at him. "It feels like I ought to be driving sitting here, and you never let me drive." Things were all right after that.

Steve took a detour up through Titirangi, the suburb that was the edge of the city before the area became more rural and rugged out near the beaches. "That's where I work," he said pointing at the fire station.

"Do you drive the big trucks?" Danny asked.

Steve snorted. "No, I don't drive the big trucks." He turned his head, grimaced. "Only got one eye. No binocular vision. Remember."

"Oh, babe." Danny's hand found his knee. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. I can do everything else."

"You probably had to work really hard to prove that too. Didn't you?"

Steve swallowed. "Yeah." He started the car again. "We won't go in and say hello. They'd want to know all about who you are."

"Yeah," Danny agreed. "Could be complicated." He patted Steve's knee then pulled his hand back. "What's the story with the Rottweiler?"

"You mean V?"

"V. What sort of name is that? Is she even a girl?"

"Yes, she's a girl. She's my neighbor." He smiled. "My cottage used to belong to her grandfather. I had no idea when I bought the place that she came with it." They were heading out of town, into the bush.

"This looks a bit like the North Shore," Danny said. "Or somewhere on Maui."

"Yeah, it does. I like it here."

"So V? And her family, I guess. Anyone else around to keep an eye on you?"

Steve wasn't taken in by his casual tone. "The team I work with. Most of the surf club and the lifeguards. That what you mean?" It was difficult with Danny on his blind side.

"No? Not that I'm not pleased that you've got people around you. I could see that the surf club crowd thinks a lot of you. You know what I mean." He nudged him. "Anyone special?"

"Not sure it's any of your business."

"Well?"

"God. You're still annoying."

"So does that mean there is?"

"There's a lady I see sometimes. It's not…"

"It's okay. You're right. It's none of my business."

They pulled up into his driveway and he got the wheelchair out of the back. "This is it. It doesn't look like much from here. This is sort of the back. It's better from the front." The walk was gravel and it was difficult for the chair. Steve gave it a shoved onto the lawn and then pushed Danny around to the deck at the front. The view across the cliff tops, dark green forested hills behind and the ocean in front, never failed to please him. "This is it." He waited nervously.

"Wow," Danny said. "Babe, this is… Wow…" and again everything was all right.

Steve had spent yesterday evening with a saw and hammer and built a ramp to get a wheelchair up the small step to the deck. Until he'd thought about showing Danny around Steve would have said his house which was all one level was easily accessible. It wasn't just the doorstep, the bathroom was also very much unwheelchair friendly. If Danny wanted to use it he was going to have to carry him in and out. The main room, however, that was fine. "This place is the first place I've ever had that's really been my own."

To his surprise Danny laughed. "I always wanted to shift you out of that place on Piikoi Street. It was one hell of a nice property but it wasn't good for you. It had way too many ghosts."

"This is too weird."

"What?" Danny asked, surprisingly gently.

"It seems lifetimes ago." Steve looked around his familiar, comfortable living room. "I live here now."

"Sit down, why don't you. You're too tall. It's giving me a crick in my neck."

Steve flopped into the old leather recliner that was actually awfully similar to the one that used to be in his father's living room. Danny wheeled to face him, looked him up and down. "I didn't really expect to find you here." He reached for Steve's hand. There were calluses on his palm from pushing the chair. "And I had no idea what you'd be like." Steve wasn't sure what he meant by that but sat and waited. Danny had never been backward at completing an idea. "I mean, we knew you'd bought a house. We saw the title. A while later your medical records were accessed but we didn't know why. Did you hurt yourself or something?"

Steve shook his head. "Became a fireman. Needed a physical. I'm fit," he added.

"I can see that," and Danny gave something like his old lascivious grin. "The thing was, we didn't know… We had no way of knowing what level of functioning you were at. Last time anyone saw you, you could barely string two words together. Now look at you, babe. You're good."

Steve knew he had a stupid smile on his face. "Yeah, I am. I'm good. I've got a good job that I like, a nice house. It's not fancy but it's enough for me. I've got friends. Yeah. I'm good." He stroked the back of Danny's hand. "What about you? Is life good for you?"

"Well, it sure beats the alternative. Oh. Your old house has got tenants by the way. Me. I had the ground floor remodeled. I hope you don't mind."

"Uh. No."

"Good. That's good. Ah, yes. So, good job, yeah, I got that. Place I like to live. It's got a few ghosts but I'm okay with them now." He gave a soft smile. "My daughter is growing up to be so beautiful. Did you notice that?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah. I noticed that."

"She lives with me a good chunk of the time. She's going to college next year. Oceanography. Can you believe that? You. That's all your fault. You and your talk about wave patterns and surfing and saving the whales."

Steve spluttered, but couldn't get a word in.

"She's a champion surfer. Have you noticed that too? Even though she didn't actually manage to get into the finals of this hellishly expensive exercise here. Have you got any idea of what it costs to come here to compete in a surfing competition? No. Of course you haven't."

Danny was smiling, the familiar proud father smile, and his free hand came up to rest on Steve's cheek, on the good side. His thumb stroked across Steve's lips. "It's been worth it, though. Every cent."

"Can I take you to bed?"

Danny's hands jerked back. "What?"

Steve made a grab and got Danny's hands back. "I want to see you. All of you. Touch you. Can I do that?"

"I can't have sex with you." Danny sounded panicked.

"Oh." Steve pulled back. "I'm sorry. Is there someone? Have you got someone now?"

"No, babe." Danny gave a sad smile. "I've never been… I've not been in the right space." He gave a wry laugh. "I haven't wanted a relationship the last few years." He sighed and gazed at the ceiling. "I meant I physically can't have sex." Danny patted his lower stomach. "I have no sensation, no feeling at all, from about two inches below my belly button." He thumped his right leg, hard enough that it should have hurt. "Can't feel a thing." Lips pursed, he finally looked back at Steve. "Can't have sex."

Steve felt helpless, horrified and sad. "Danny."

"So yeah, not much to offer anyone in the relationship department. Not to mention, well, I'm pretty ugly without my clothes on. My muscles have atrophied. My skin's all white and a bit… well, damp. I have to check myself morning and night for pressure sores. I'm incontinent. Have to catheterise myself three times a day, give myself an enema in the morning. The whole thing's not pretty." He shuddered. "You can see why I don't really want to try the whole dating thing with anyone."

"I'm not just anyone," Steve choked out. "Please, Danny. I want to see you. I want… no, I think I need to hold you, and with you in that chair… We can't even hug."

"A hug?" Danny grinned. "You're asking for a hug. Where is Steve McGarrett and what have you done with him?"

"I'm not Steve McGarrett anymore, Danny. I haven't been, since... Well, since…"

"I was joking."

"I know. But it's true. I'm not Steve anymore. Come to bed with me, Danny. Please."

A world of emotions ranged across Danny's face but in the end he nodded. "Sure."

In the bedroom Steve turned down the covers, and Danny pulled himself out of the chair and sat on the edge of the mattress. He grinned, seemingly okay with the idea. "This goes both ways, babe," he told Steve. "From what I can see around those tee shirts and shorts, you're in pretty good shape. Strip."

Steve grinned back and did what he was told. "Oh, man," Danny breathed. You are in good shape. Bit skinnier than you used to be but looking good. Come here."

Steve came. Danny reached out and gently ran his hand down the scar tissue on his chest and side, then slid a hand up his arm across the scars that had taken his tattoo. "You've been through so much." His hand continued up to Steve's face and he smiled. "You're still the most beautiful man I have ever seen."

Steve's heart ached and his words seized up. Instead he took hold of Danny's tee shirt and lifted it over his head. He ran his hands over the warm and vital flesh, taut muscles shifting beneath his hands. "Get up on the bed," he ground out. Danny complied, scooting himself back up the bed to lean up against the head board. "May I?" Steve held his hand over Danny's fly. Danny nodded, wriggling his body from side to side to help as Steve pulled the pants down, pulling off his shoes and socks on the way. It was Danny's body but definitely not as he remembered it. "You don't smell bad," was the first thought that popped out of his mouth. Danny had made it sound like he might. He ran his hands down Danny's thighs. The flesh was soft, no tension of muscles held waiting to move like in his upper body, but still warm and alive. An ugly scar ran down his thigh and another across his knee.

Steve kissed the scars and moved down. He picked up Danny's foot, flexed it, pressed his thumb into the ball. Even though he knew he wouldn't get a response it was still disconcerting. He looked up. Danny was watching him, his face blank, lips pursed. On his knees Steve stalked back up the bed, stopped, straddling Danny's hips. Danny's eyes held his, shy and uncertain in a way that Steve just didn't like to see on Danny.

"What do you think?" Danny whispered.

"I think I want to kiss you." He deliberately did his eyebrow kink, although heaven knew how it looked over an eye patch. "Do you still kiss?"

"Sort of out of practice," Danny admitted, but he leaned forward to meet him. Steve pulled Danny close in against him and rolled them onto their sides. Danny's arms came around him and their mouths found each other, breath mingling, familiar and warm. Steve kissed him with all the pent up fury of years of thinking he would never do this again and Danny gave it all right back, his big hands clutched tight to Steve's back. Steve's whole body was shaking, close to breaking, his breath coming in great lurching gasps when they finally pulled back to breathe. "Oh, God." He was crying, Danny's thumb wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"Babe," Danny said quietly and Steve was glad to see he was as wrecked as Steve felt. Then Danny's hand walked down his body, his touch so familiar, so like coming home, and he grasped Steve's cock, big hand curling around the shaft.

Steve gasped. "Danny." He tried to jerk away. He'd been trying to ignore his arousal. It felt wrong to even want sex when Danny couldn't even feel anything. "You don't have to…"

"I want to," Danny said, voice husky. "Come on, babe." He gave a pump and Steve gave in as Danny expertly worked his cock, remembering all the little tricks that drove Steve wild. He was gone, so quickly, all his senses overloaded, and crying through his orgasm as Danny held him close and kissed his tears away.

Steve let Danny pull him across his body, Steve tucked over his chest and under his arm. Danny kissed the top of his head. "You want to grab the blankets? I can't reach."

Steve did, yanking them awkwardly over them. Then he yawned.

"Take a nap, why don't you? We'll talk later."

"I know you're going to ask so I'll say it first," Danny said later when they'd woken up and kissed some more. "Yes. I really hate it that I can't have sex."

"Danny." Steve froze, his hand on Danny's stomach. "I'm so sorry."

"See," Danny said, "I knew you were going to say that." He placed his hand over Steve's. "And that's why I had to bring it up. Because I knew you'd feel like that. Babe, I need you to know," Danny turned Steve's face so he had to look at him, "I hate that I can't have sex, that I can't even have those feelings, but I don't hate my life and I don't resent you or hold you responsible." Steve didn't know where to start with answering that, but this was Danny, he should have known that he wouldn't get a word in edgeways anyway.

"See, babe. My life is like this." Danny drew a big circle in the air. "And sex," he drew a small circle inside, but off to the side of his big circle, "it's only a little bit of my life. Using my legs… walking…" He drew another small circle about the same size of the sex one. "But everything else," he sketched filling in the rest of the space, "my life is full. Sure, there's a couple of holes in it, but hey, I'd rather live like this than not live at all. Do you get that, Steve?" Danny surged upwards and flipped them, pushing Steve onto his back and lying on top of him. "I don't hate you. I don't blame you." Danny pressed forward into a blistering kiss. Steve's brain finally caught up and he went with it, answering in kind, enjoying the contact, the intimacy, the feeling of Danny here and alive, and finding surprisingly that right now he didn't need sex, either.

Danny finally pulled back, a fond smile on his face. He kissed the eye patch and then the scar below it. His lips moved higher, kissed Steve's forehead and then down, and oh so tenderly kissed his good eye. "I'm okay and I'm so happy to find you're okay too." Then he pushed himself back onto his back and started to sit up. "Okay. Hungry now. What's for lunch?"

"It's nice here," Danny said later. They were dressed and back in the main room. Steve was throwing together a salad for lunch, proudly washing greens from the little vegetable garden he had growing around the back, away from the wind.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I like it here." He pointed out the doors to the deck with the vast ocean beyond. "I love this view."

"Suits you," Danny agreed. He cocked his head to the side. "I want to ask you something, but I don't know what you're going to say."

"Go on." Steve put the salad on the coffee table next to the ham from the butcher in Titirangi and sweet cherry tomatoes from Yvonne's garden. He grabbed the loaf of bread and hoped it wasn't too stale.

Danny forked a slice of ham and added it to his plate on his lap. "Hey, are those homegrown tomatoes?" He snagged one and shoved it in his mouth, making pornographic moaning noises. "You know most people eat off their table."

The table was completely covered in paperwork involved with the surf contest. "Only me here most of the time. I eat at the breakfast bar or outside."

Danny smiled. "Grace and I are going back at the end of the week after the contest. Come with us?"

Steve had known that was coming. He'd barely slept the last few nights, working out the pros and cons, the to-and-fros, so he'd be ready for the question. It had been a really hard call but he was sure it was the right one.

"Something I'd like to know," he said instead.

Danny looked cautious. "Yes?"

"Chin got me that passport. He played with my medical records. Did you guys know everything I was going to do? Did you let me do it? Was it supposed to make me feel independent?" Because it would kill him if he hadn't actually achieved what he thought he had.

"Not quite." Danny looked embarrassed. "We knew about the passport but we missed what you were going to do with the boat. Even with getting a passport it hadn't actually occurred to anyone that you would try to leave the country by sailing away in a tiny boat." Steve could see the edge of fear in Danny's gaze. "Chin saw you collect the passport and sail out of the marina and then we lost you."

"Well, good." Steve grinned, but it was hard remembering that time, when life had seemed so bleak, and sort of hopeful too. "I worked hard to get lost."

"We couldn't find you for weeks. We should have put a transmitter on the yacht. Jesus, Steve. What is it with you? See, that was our problem, we thought brain damaged you would be more cautious than ordinary you. How stupid could we get?"

Steve wasn't sure if he should be insulted.

"You fell off the face of the earth and we were all thinking the worst. We were all hoping you might have set up another identity we didn't know about, but really," Danny swallowed, "I think that privately, we were all thinking you were dead." He huffed. "When you turned up in Fiji, we couldn't believe it. Kono and Kamekona got together and threw a big party." He shuddered. "It was one hell of a night."

Steve laughed. He remembered hoping that Chin would be aware that he was safe on land again, but he hadn't thought that anyone else would have cared much. He gave Danny a sad smile. "No."

"No, what?"

"No. I won't go home with you."

There was silence for a long beat. Danny didn't seem that surprised. And then, because Danny deserved an explanation, John said, "I'm not Steven John McGarrett anymore. I haven't been him since… that explosion that changed both our lives. I couldn't go back to law enforcement, and there'd be all these people expecting me to be the man I was, the old Steve. And I'm not. It would be… awkward. I'd be on edge the whole time.

"I'm John Steven Chung and I've gotten used to him. He's a good man. He's happy and settled with a responsible job. He saves lives." Suddenly it was easier than he could have imagined. "He's got friends, whanau. I'm happy here, Danny. You can come and visit. I might come for a visit…" Suddenly he laughed. "I'd like you to come and stay. Hell, we could have some bizarre long distance relationship if you want to, but no. I'm not going back with you."

Danny took a moment before he spoke. "I can't say I'm not disappointed, but yeah, I get it." He huffed out a sigh. "I watched you at the surf club. You were nervous with me around, I could tell that, but you were comfortable too. You belonged there. People like and respect you. I could tell that too. I had a feeling the way this conversation would go." He looked nervous. "You mean it about staying in touch, though? You won't disappear again? Because I don't think I could stand that, now we've found you again. Maybe we could even use email, Skype, all that modern stuff?"

"Yeah, I can do that." Steve plopped down on the sofa beside Danny. "I'm gonna redecorate. Upgrade the bathroom. Make it wheelchair friendly. What do you think?"

Danny gave him a wide smile. "Cool."


End file.
